The Remarkable Schrödinger Man
by Jazz Kaufmann
Summary: This is a Half-Life 2 retelling, with the focus on Gordon Freeman as a deeply troubled character overcoming his trauma and inner conflict. [In progress]
1. Prologue

Prologue

Rise and shine, Mr. Freeman. Rise and…shine."

And there he was again: the government man.

His voice was deeply nasal, almost apneic, as though he were speaking through the papery husk of a beehive. He wielded it with an unbearable self-assurance, yet his emphases were oddly placed, like an old train stuttering and lurching forward. And he was very, very close to Freeman; close enough to reveal every dimple and pore in his aged face; a skull stretched over with flesh-toned latex, fitted with insidious eyes that glowered with ill-intent.

There was a sudden, painful flash of light and the distorted scream of a train braking. Then everything was a negative, insanely posturized in Freeman's eyes. Then he blinked, and things were normal again.

"Not that I wish to imply you have been… _sleeping_ on…the job…" continued the G-man, " _No_ one is more deserving of a _rest_ , and all the effort in the _world_ would have gone to waste, until…"

The G-man hesitated for a moment.

"Well," he continued with a smirk, "let's just say your hour has…come again."

Visions began to dance within the G-man like reflections in glass. Freeman saw the old test chamber, where this all started: the Anti-Mass Chamber in the Anomalous Materials Lab of the Black Mesa Research Facility. Within the G-man, Freeman watched the terrible incident all over again. There: the honeycomb-yellow crystal, donated by a government man in a dark suit and tie: a rare sample, rich with new discoveries, new science, new recognition and grants. Yes, put it in the Anti-Mass Spectrometer, Dr. Freeman. The administrator needs us to analyze it, and quick. The administrator wants to please the G-man, for the sake of our future funding.

Freeman saw the Spectrometer's ray crackle and spark uncertainly. He saw himself, donned in orange and grey armor: the specialized Hazardous Environment Suit. He was pushing the crystal into the beam by means of a metal trolley. He saw the moment that the ray brushed the crystal. He saw bolts of green lightning splaying out through the barrel chamber like it was a plasma lamp. One discharge shattered the six inches of reinforced glass that protected his colleagues in the control room. A second surge sent their bodies flying. And far worse things came from the G-man's crystal than lightning bolts. Far worse things were unleashed into the world. The first domino in the G-man's long train; and Gordon Freeman knew that he was next in line.

The G-man spoke again: "The _right_ man in the _wrong_ place…can make _all_ the difference…in the _world_ …"

The visions had become unfamiliar now: frightening, alien, surreal. Freeman saw sheer and narrow canyons of metal. Their sides were lined with hundreds of spindly robotic arms like a bacterium's cilia. They were handling steel, industrial sarcophagi, snatching them from conveyor rails through the winding iron trench.

"So wake _up_ , Mr. Freeman."

Freeman blinked, and the rails were now train tracks. He blinked again, and there was only one pair of tracks, part of a different scene, one that blossomed outside of the G-man as well as within. Regular train tracks: they skated away into nothingness. And now Gordon was on a train car, and the G-man was gliding away from him, fading along with the shadows and the nothingness.

There was a malicious smile on his face. "Wake up and… _smell the ashes_."


	2. Point Insertion

1

Point Insertion

I didn't see _you_ get on."

Gordon Freeman blinked. He was on a train. The G-man was gone.

Before him in the train car, gripping a vertical railing, was a man with bark-brown skin and ebony hair, dressed in a faded blue shirt and pants, not unlike a nurse's scrubs. He had glanced with genuine interest at Gordon, but it soon faded and he returned to staring gloomily out the train window.

It was several more seconds before Gordon became aware of his own body: how he was also standing up, gripping a vertical railing, and wearing the very same style of cheap blue scrubs. He noticed another man on the train, hunched over in his seat, dressed likewise.

Gordon looked out the window. He couldn't see farther than thirty feet, where his view was blocked by a long and tall brick wall, crowned with a chain-link fence and barbed wire, which were silhouetted by a gray dawn. Above it, he spotted some reds and pinks and even splashes of yellow enlivening the drab clouds, like the faded graffiti that ornamented the inside of his train car; but otherwise, everything seemed oppressively muted, both in sound and sight - nothing beautiful to look at, and nothing to hear but the rumble of the train wheels.

It was surprisingly difficult for Gordon to think straight. Everything was too surreal. Everything was too fast. There were too many leaps of reasoning necessary to understand his current position. He'd had no time to really _think_ , to plan farther ahead than just the next hour, to think about anything other than his own survival. For someone like Gordon, this was like being unable to _breathe_. He had been submerged in danger and fright for nearly twenty-four hours straight. Too much information, too much to review, too much to analyze and absorb. Where could he possibly start?

The train whistle howled. _Trains_ , Gordon thought absently: _This all started on a train of sorts, didn't it?_

* * *

He had worked at Black Mesa Research, an extensive government funded complex nestled in the harshest desert crags of New Mexico. He was a newly hired Research Associate under Dr. Isaac Kleiner. It had only been four months since he moved onto the base. He had an apartment to himself, one that was _silent_ , clean, and open: where he could think. And at night, when the residential areas were all dark, he could see the arms of the Milky Way splayed out across the bejeweled globe of space. A mind could _stretch_ out there.

Gordon could not recall being more relaxed and at ease than when he worked at Black Mesa. There, he didn't have to talk to anyone he didn't want to. There he could retreat into silence and thought for as long as he wanted. There he was in constant, routine, comfortable contact with a few, good, understanding friends. He had food, a comfortable bed, books and time. And most importantly, there he finally had the materials, the technology, the human resources and encouragement to not just theorize, not just fantasize, but _make his dream reality_. There he was not just _studying_ the teleportation of visible matter - at Black Mesa he was _making it occur_.

He remembered the first successful experiment: flowing zero-point radiation through a three-inch cube of super-cooled Darmstadtium, which triggered a space-time undercurrent that subsumed a single iron shaving from measurable reality for six and a half seconds, before it reappeared five feet away, in the exact spot predicted by Freeman's calculations. Dr. Kleiner was ecstatic. Dr. Vance had never been prouder. Barney Calhoun started calling him a witch, and joked that they needed to burn him before it was too late.

He remembered being thirty minutes late to work one day. The facility was very large and mostly underground: transportation was by tram and metro. There had been an accident in the chemical research centers, causing tram delays. Several of them were stopped together on parallel tracks in a station, waiting for the way forward to clear up. The windows were not tinted; passengers could see each other through them. Which is how Gordon, looking into the tram next to his, first locked eyes with the black suited skull faced government man.

The man smiled. Gordon looked away. That was it.

Traffic resumed and he arrived at Anomalous Materials.

Gordon could still hear his coworkers' voices…

"Mornin' Mr. Freeman. Looks like you're runnin' late."

"Hey, Mr. Freeman: Dr. Vance told me to make sure you headed down to the labs as soon as you got into your hazard suit."

"Go right on through, Mr. Freeman. Good luck in the barrel today."

"Ah, Gordon. Here you are. We just sent the sample down to the test chamber."

"Breen asked us to boost the Anti-Mass Spectrometer to one hundred and five percent; bit of a gamble, of course, but we _do_ need the extra resolution."

"Administrator Breen is very concerned that we get a conclusive analysis of today's sample. I gather they went to some length to get it. It could be the material you have been looking for, Gordon, to teleport something a bit bigger than iron shavings, eh?"

"I'm afraid we'll be deviating a bit from standard analysis procedures today, Gordon."

"But if you follow standard _insertion_ procedure, everything will be fine."

"The possibility of a Resonance Cascade scenario is extremely unlikely."

"We've assured the administrator that nothing will go wrong."

"Gordon, we have complete confidence in you."

* * *

The crystal touched the ray on May 16th, 2009, at 8:58 am.

For two interims of approximately seventeen seconds, Gordon was in _their_ realm, somewhere among the billion suns that glinted in the Milky Way. A realm of monsters: a realm of toothed flora and eyeless fauna and green waters that clung to his hazard suit like saliva. There were black hairs springing from the purple, coral ground; they were massaging two-legged, star-faced moles that slobbered burning radioactive pus. There were pit bulls with compound eyes for heads, and semi-circles of crusty hunchbacked bugs burbling in an alien tongue.

After his first visit, he found himself two feet above the floor on the opposite side of the room. He had been transported.

After a three second respite he was in their realm again. Afterwards he reappeared five feet above the chamber floor, across the room. His drop nearly impaled him on a broken metal beam.

As he fled, he found Dr. Ashwell dead in the chamber's airlock, his blood spattered across the floor. Dr. Vance was in the Spectrometer's computer room, coughing from smoke, tending to Dr. Kleiner, whose leg was bleeding severely.

"Please, get to the surface as soon as you can," Dr. Vance had told him, "and let someone know we're stranded down here!"

But then _they_ began coming: the beasts from the other world. Freeman spent thirty-four seconds in their realm, and they spent twenty-four hours in his.

There were alien spiders, big as garbage can lids; he remembered finding one clamped down on Bill Guthrie's head, filling him with green slime, turning his chest into a gruesome mouth…

"No! No, no! Get it off me! Get it off, _get it off_ -!"

Hunchbacked, bipedal monsters with four red, bulging eyes, and hands that could summon thunderbolts from the air…

"Soldiers have arrived, and they're coming to rescue us."

The touch of a dry, fleshy rope, a monster's lure wrapping around his neck, dragging him upwards to where undulating maws drooled: the living stalactites that grew from the ceiling…

"I killed twelve scientists and not one of 'em fought back. This is _not_ what I signed up for."

The constant crackle of a Geiger counter. Smashing alien heads to a pulp with a crowbar. A bouquet of giant scorpion tails, with swords for stingers…

"The military's idea of containment is to kill everyone associated with the project."

People he knew slaughtered by both alien monsters and human marines…shooting another human being dead to protect himself…doing it over and over…

"So, who is this guy: Freeman? They say he was at ground zero?"

Bullets glancing off his hazard suit's armor, and blood spattering on its lambda symbol…

"All I know for sure is he killed Rod and Hanks, and I'm going to send him to hell for it."

Rockets. Fire. Screaming lights.

"Repeat: we are pulling out and commencing airstrikes! _Forget about Freeman_ ; he'll burn with the rest of them!"

Sirens…sirens…sirens…sirens…

* * *

Gordon remembered the last words he heard from Barney Calhoun: "Can't talk now, but catch me later, I'll buy ya a beer."

From Isaac Kleiner: "Why didn't Breen listen to me? Why didn't he…why…?"

From Eli Vance: "Let someone know we're stranded down here!"

Those were only his closest friends; they all would have died when the military began aerial bombing the facility. And just after Gordon had been trying so very hard to spread his wings, to let go of the past, to let go of all his anxieties and insecurities and all that psychological waste; he had been getting to know his team, the staff…he'd been _talking_ to people…only to never hear them talk again…

…All because he pushed the sample into the beam…

Matthew Ashwell: "We have complete confidence in you." Killed in the barrel chamber airlock.

Bill Guthrie: "Heaven save me from this paperwork." Transformed into an alien monster in his office.

Rupert Godwin: "Top of the morning to you, Dr. Freeman!" Alice Maheswaran: "If you could get those reports to me by Monday, that'd be best." Emmett Kyle: "You know, you ought to talk more. It's always a pleasure when you do." All three were killed in the control room by a lightning blast.

Christina Rockwell: "Don't shoot! I'm a scientist! I work for Black Mesa -!"

Wallace Breen: "Have a pleasant afternoon, Doctor."

Andrew Weatherbee: "What if the world finds out what we were doing down here?"

Their faces flashed before Gordon's eyes, one after the other, repeating their last words, and within their skin, like reflections in glass, he saw the Anti-Mass Spectrometer, and a bearded, tacit Research Associate in a hazard suit pushing the crystal into the beam.

* * *

He ran over Weatherbee's last words once again: "What if the world finds out what we were doing down here?"

What indeed? Evidently they would call in the military. It was an understatement, of course, to say that Gordon Freeman was confused by the marines' orders to kill everyone on the premises. And as far as he could tell, it would also be an understatement to say the marines themselves were just "confused". _Everyone_ was confused. _No one_ was being told the complete truth, especially not Freeman. He had known that Black Mesa was involved in defense research for the U.S. government, so the covert operations were not a surprise _per se_ ; in fact, it explained how the Hazardous Environment suit could save Gordon's life in a war zone: it was retrofitted military equipment. But it also explained how Freeman never discovered that for two years Black Mesa Research had been successfully teleporting researchers to _the aliens'_ world.

"Get into the teleportation labs," an unknown doctor rasped to him, as he bled out on a laboratory floor. "You're not… authorized to know about those…but I can see…you already know…a great deal more than any one man…is supposed to…"

Alien soldiers stored in vats. Giant spiders trapped in glass tubes. Bug-eyed pug dogs kept in metal kennels, and four eyed hunchbacks neatly dissected into separate jars. Teleporters. Alien weapons, Another world. _Their_ world.

"You have no idea how popular you are over here in the Lambda complex," Dr. Tess told him, while Gordon tried to patch up the old woman's bloodied arms. "Your little space-time sublimation technique changed everything: it was going to reduce our costs by eight-five percent!"

This was what Gordon's research had been for, all without his knowledge: to improve travel between worlds, to aid neckbeards in their meddling with foreign ecosystems. Black Mesa, trafficking in samples and advances stolen from other worlds. That was why there was so much security. That was why their safety courses were so intensive. That was why the specialized hazard suit issued to Gordon was retrofitted, experimental military armor. Because behind the highest security clearances, Black Mesa was recklessly exploring ecosystems utterly incompatible, utterly _lethal_ , to Earth's.

"Quite a few handsome specimens were collected from the border-world and brought back this way…uh…before the survey members started being collected themselves, that is. Anyway, we suspect there is an immense portal over there, created by the intense concentration of a single powerful being. You will know it when you see it. I hate to say this Gordon, but you must kill it."

"Yeah, you'd _better_ kill it."

"Of course, you owe us nothing, Mr. Freeman. But you've come this far. You know as much about these creatures as anyone."

"Enough to know that if you don't wipe it out, there won't be much for you to come home to."

Gordon's eyes were bitter.

"There already isn't, friend."

* * *

In the present, on the train, Gordon's knuckles were white as they nearly tore out his hair. The other two passengers remained silent, though they gave him some odd looks. Freeman didn't notice.

 _No matter where…no matter what…I destroy everything…no matter my intentions, I destroy everything and everyone…I destroy…_

Tears were welling up in fat globules and rolling down his cheek, staining his clothes. Freeman was miserable.

* * *

The scientists had teleported him to the other world, via a terrifying, crackling portal ripped out of the thin air. Gordon didn't say a word as he leapt into it. He said almost nothing to these people he didn't know, the people he was "saving"; no, he was _running away_ from them, to a new quietude, a new _planet_ , however hostile and horrible it was. He was going where he didn't have to talk to _anyone_ , where there was no one he knew, no one to bother him, no one to be hurt by him. No one to care about. No one to die.

The Lambda science team said they had a plan to get him back. Gordon resented these lies. The military didn't surrender in these situations, they retreated and then bombed. Airstrikes were going to decimate the facility from the face of the Earth. And Gordon could see it in these scientists' faces: they knew they were going to die, they knew it, probably, far better than him. They were only sending Gordon over to protect the _rest_ of the planet: when the bomb-smoke cleared, the portal would still be there unless Gordon succeeded. But either way, he was not coming back.

 _Good_ , he thought. As far as he could tell, Earth was a lot better off without him around.

Gordon leapt into the portal, and everything went neon green and then black and then green again…

And then he saw it.

 _Their_ world: spires that looked like dinosaur spines, on floating meteors of porous concrete lost in a disorienting globe of constellations robed in a nebula of orange and pink and green and deep, deep blue…Floating platforms made of coral and rock. Muscular plants that teleported him. Daggered arms of flesh trying to stab him. Scavenging weapons and supplies off the corpses of human explorers, their bodies littered around on the gnarled, levitating plateaus, or inside the bellies of hollow, fluid filled boulders. Their faces were unrecognizable, but their specialized hazard suits, the same kind Gordon wore, were _very_ recognizable. Each one was a haunting premonition of what would happen to Freeman. Things like that require sanity as a toll.

And then began the baleful groans, distant as a dying echo, yet close as the whispers of a lover, sending chills up Freeman's spine, making him turn left and right to find it, but he soon realized that it was speaking directly to his mind:

" _Freeman…"_

It was the voice of the being that held the portal open by sheer alien will. And it whispered, over and over, nearly unintelligible:

"… _their slaves we are their slaves_ … _the last…I am the last_ …y _ou are man…he is not man…for you he waits…for you_ … _the truth…you can never know the truth…Win…you cannot win…_ "

The whispering being was a stone gray, half dissolved fetus, floating in a cavernous womb of rock.

" _Freeman…I am the last…_ "

Its head opened like a flower to reveal a spherical core of glimmering energy and tissue, sensitive to conventional weaponry.

" _For you…he waits…_ "

* * *

Indeed, when the being was dead, the G-man was waiting.

"Gordon Freeman, in the flesh. Or rather, in the hazard suit - I took the liberty of relieving you of your weapons. Most of them _were_ government property. As for the suit…I think you've earned it.

"The border-world, Xen, is in our control, for the time being, thanks to you - quite a nasty piece of work you managed over there. I am _impressed_.

" _That's why I'm here_ , Mr. Freeman. I have recommended your services to my, eh… _employers_ …and they have authorized me to offer you a job. They agree with me that you have _limitless potential_.

"You've proved yourself a decisive man, so I don't expect you'll have any trouble deciding what to do…If you're interested, just step into the portal and I will take _that_ as a _yes_ …Otherwise…hmm…well…I can offer you a battle you have no chance of _winning_. Rather an _anticlimax_ after what _you've_ just survived.

" _Time to choose_."

There Freeman stood, with the dark-suited government man, on a brink of time and space. Another portal had opened up before him, with the G-man gesturing subtly towards it.

Freeman could see galaxies dancing in the portal; yes, he could see the stars, the beautiful, cold, lonely, unconcerned stars. Glowing out in the deepest fathoms of space; if you got too close to one, you got burned alive, but at a safe distance they provided light and warmth. A safe, unreachable distance…

The G-man stared expectantly.

"Do I get dental?" Gordon suddenly replied. And before the G-man could answer, Freeman had stepped through…

* * *

The sky disappeared beneath a high vaulted ceiling as the train entered its station. New shadows fell over the car; its internal lights flickered on, emphasizing Gordon's reflection in the window pane.

Subject: Gordon Freeman.

Male, Age 27.

Ph.D., MIT, Theoretical Physics.

Research Associate, Anomalous Materials Laboratory, Black Mesa Research Facility, New Mexico.

Status: Hired and deployed.

He grew up in Seattle, Washington. He had no dependents, no girlfriend; he was the only child of two highly capable parents, raised on the bleached Seattle coast.

He had a gaunt face, with short black-brown hair on his head in an even carpet and on his face in a stern Van Dyke beard. His eyes revealed nothing because they sought to reveal everything; as a result, his face was prematurely aged from his tendency to constantly scowl in concentration and focus. Almost as if to temper this off-putting severity, he wore thick rimmed prescription lenses, the frame wrapping around the back of his ear. But they were of no avail against his naturally threatening appearance. He stood a little more than six feet tall.

Gordon Freeman: scourge of the military, tamer of worlds, one man army. Now employed by the G-man. Now back on Earth, apparently, to perform a job, which would "become apparent as he moved forward naturally", and which required his newly discovered skill set as a superhuman war machine. Not that he thought of himself as a particularly good war machine: as far as Gordon was concerned, without his "hazardous environment suit" he bled as easily as anyone else. But the G-man was not an idiot, and this was the agreement. To be inserted into space-time, anywhere in the universe, and removed as needed. It would be clear to him on each occasion what he was expected to do.

The train finally squealed to a halt.

"Well," sighed the black man as he stepped off onto the platform. "End of the line."

* * *

The other man stood up and followed him out. But Gordon hesitated - he didn't know if he wanted to get off yet. The train seemed safe enough, and he still needed to think.

But then he heard a familiar voice echoing through the train station.

Out of curiosity, Gordon stepped onto the platform. Discarded cans and Chinese takeout boxes littered the tiled floor. The train station was unsettlingly empty. Perhaps only fifteen total passengers exited from various cars and slowly shambled past Gordon. And up above them, retrofitted into the wall, was a giant, rectangular monitor displaying the white bearded, harsh, strong, but trustworthy face of Gordon's old boss: Dr. Wallace Breen, Black Mesa administrator.

"Welcome," he said with comfortable charisma. "Welcome to City 17. You have chosen, or been chosen, to relocate to one of our finest remaining urban centers."

Gordon was transfixed and utterly bewildered by this. It was like being in a hyperreal dream. It did not help when he was temporarily blinded by an obnoxious flash of light. He stumbled back from it, almost colliding with a gloomy woman walking behind him. As his vision cleared, he saw a hovering drone, shaped like a mechanical eyeball a foot and a half wide. It was analyzing Gordon and taking photographs. There were several other drones, drifting like fat mosquitos around the other shambling citizens, who did their best to ignore them.

"I thought so much of City 17," continued Dr. Breen, "that I elected to establish my administration here, in the citadel so thoughtfully provided by our benefactors. I have been proud to call City 17 my home. So whether you are here to stay, or passing through on your way to parts unknown: welcome to City 17. It is safer here."

Everything was almost unbearably surreal for Gordon. For as far as his mind could be concerned, he had last seen Breen some forty-eight hours ago, passing by him in the hallways in Black Mesa: that energetic, ambitious, kindly fellow in his mid-thirties…Now he looked about fifty, with greying hair and wearied eyes, but that same comforting expression and twinkling eyes. His mind couldn't process it. He knew it was Breen, but it was like viewing Breen in a movie; Gordon could not ascertain any meaningful relationship with him anymore.

He was stirred from his rigorous reverie by a loud commotion to his left, and a heavily distorted, robotic voice saying:

"First warning: move away."

Gordon turned with ever renewed surprise towards the source. He saw the exit from the station was behind an iron bar fence passable by a turnstile door. Citizens were making their way, one at a time, through to the other side. But one of them, a shorter, balding man, was held up by a masked and armored guard that was confiscating his suitcase.

"Please," the citizen said. "It's all I have left -" But the guard shoved him roughly to the ground.

" _Move it,_ " the guard snarled. It was as tall as Freeman, and its full-body uniform sported what looked like several layers of Kevlar armor. Its voice sounded like it was passed through two consecutive walkie-talkies. This was made believable by its full-head helmet: bone-white and bug-like, with two insectoid eyes as visors, and a sinister gasmask for the mouth. Guns and equipment were strapped around its waist and back, and it held a menacing black rod in its hand, sparks occasionally flying from its tip.

The citizen stumbled back to his feet. "Alright, alright, I'm moving! Jeez…"

There were guards everywhere, now that Gordon looked. They stood in shadowed corners, or paced slowly on the fringes of a herd, like stealthy cattle drivers. They all hosted the same armor and the same equipment.

As Gordon pushed through the turnstile himself, he saw a woman clinging to the fence, calling out with restrained hysterics: "Were you the only ones on that train?" Gordon's relative generosity of attention encouraged her, and she turned to him, tears in her eyes: "Overwatch stopped our train in the woods and took my husband for questioning. They said he would be on the next train - I'm not sure when that was…They are being nice and letting me wait, though."

Gordon stared at her blankly. He did not know what to say. The woman was disconcerted at this tall, silent man, who stared through her like a train window. Too many options were flooding his mind: what to say, what to do, and he was running out of time, she was looking nervous. Ah, and so many unpleasant outcomes…but suddenly a thought occurred to him, that filled him with nearly euphoric elation. _I'm not really here,_ he thought strangely. _I'm leaving at any time. I don't_ have _to care so much anymore. I don't have to destroy myself. I'm a star, a distant star...there can be a thousand years between myself and the people I warm…_

Already, he was walking abruptly away from the poor woman. He felt a weight lifting at his realization. He was finally alone. He could, without attachment, without consequence, view the whole world as a scientist, as a detective, never involved more than he wanted to be, figuring things out, saving lives without loving them; yes, this was right. This was what he had always wanted to be…

 _The guards are the "Overwatch",_ he thought to himself, almost giddy with the joy of understanding and solving. _They're alien; the masks are life support. They aren't Xen aliens, because_ those _didn't need life support. So maybe they were in the same star system, and the ruckus caught their attention. So did killing the alien beast not solve anything? Did the portal remain open anyway? And did they conquer the Earth? Because people look so hopeless; they'd be making more of an effort to escape, but there's nowhere to escape to. Maybe a resistance movement, but…_

Gordon almost walked into a table and the man sitting at it. The table looked like it had never been cleaned, and it was possible its single occupant never had either.

The occupant whispered to Gordon frantically: "Don't drink the water. They…they put something in it to make you forget." His eye twitched and he looked hurriedly around himself. "I don't even remember how I got here."

Freeman said nothing and walked away. He did not want to talk. He wanted to think. He needed to think and not do anything anymore for a while - but now he was standing before a glaring monitor of train departure and arrival times, with an arrival-security queue to his right.

A man was muttering to himself as he paced back and forth beneath the arrival-departure screens: "Always full but they never arrive…never departing but always full and they never arrive…"

Gordon Freeman sat down at a table in the corner and put his head in his hands, trying to block out the world just for a little bit. It would take some time for him to fully adjust to his secret ghostliness and truly not care anymore.

 _The Overwatch contracted out to the G-man, who opened the portal for them to come through, by giving us the crystal and pushing us to examine it in the Anti-Mass Spectrometer. The G-man and the administrator, Dr. Breen, pushed us to it. And now Dr. Breen is ruling this alien dystopia. So Dr. Breen was in on it. He and the Overwatch made a mutual deal with the G-man. But the G-man has his own agenda, because he let me get through to Xen to kill the being and let the portal close. Somehow the Overwatch got it open again and apparently took the Earth…but…the G-man has his own plans, and I'm his trump card…_

"Dr. Breen, _again_?" said a nearby voice. "I was hoping I had seen the last of him in City 14."

"I wouldn't say that too loud," warned another voice. "This is his base of operations -"

"Move along!" shouted an Overwatch guard as it stepped into the room with three cohorts. "No loitering; you go through security to your assigned relocation route. Now _move_ it."

The pacing man suddenly lost it.

"Where's my wife?! Where is my wife?!" he screamed at the guards before one jabbed him in the gut with an electrified rod and he collapsed in a shivering heap. A nearby woman screamed and people began hurrying to the chain-link security queue.

 _Dr. Hamish gunned down with a high powered machine gun_ \- it happened in a flash before Gordon's eyes - a flashback. But then he was back in the train station, one hand gripping the table until his knuckles were bright red and white, the other reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. _Kill them,_ he thought, his inner voice nearly drowned out by his unbearably furious heartbeat. _No time for questions, you have to kill them or they'll kill you._

This was a kneejerk reaction. Gordon knew, rationally, that he needed to stand up and walk with the other civilians. But instinctively, emotionally…well, now he was left breathing too quickly, his heart threatening to crack his ribs: it took him rather longer than the others to get to his feet, and he could tell this did not go unnoticed by the Overwatch, even as they were busy dragging their stunned victim away.

In line, Gordon watched as one by one, the blue clothed citizens stepped from the front of the queue into an open space, were padded down by several Overwatch guards, photographed by a floating drone, and apparently analyzed by a wall-mounted camera on a robotic arm. Each citizen's scrub tag was scanned, and they were directed brusquely through one of two exits: forward or to the left.

As one man walked through the left exit, the chain-link gates before and behind him shut automatically, trapping him in the atrium. An obnoxious buzzer sounded, and another robotic camera, mounted to the fence, came alive and focused intently on the man's frightened face. Then, an Overwatch officer entered the atrium through a thick metal door in the wall. It motioned for the citizen to follow it inside. "You, citizen: come with me."

"What -? But, wait a minute, where are you -?"

" _Get in here!_ " the officer repeated. Its radio voice peaked with the shriek of a microphone.

"But… _me_?"

" _I said MOVE!_ "

In he went, and the door slammed shut. Next human, please.

Gordon was trying to control his breathing, and bring his heart-rate down. _They may not know what to do with me,_ he thought. _I don't know if the G-man forged documents for me or something. But they likely won't, and that means they'll fall back on standard procedure. They'll take me into the back room if there's a problem. They'll be doing things there and they'll need equipment for it. Distractions I can use…_

It was Gordon's turn; he was called forward. Two Overwatch guards felt roughly around his whole body. They had no regard for privacy or sensitivity, making Freeman cringe a moment. Either they did not understand the details of human anatomy or, more likely, they did not care.

One swept a scanner over Gordon's scrub tag. It made a metallic beep.

"Move it," the guard said, gesturing towards the left exit with his baton.

Gordon stepped through into the atrium -

The doors slammed shut. The buzzer rang out. Flashes emitted around him as several pictures were taken by the robot cameras.

"Don't move," growled an officer on the other side of the cage.

Gordon stood more-or-less patiently. He willed that his eyes be cold and defensive, matching the insectoid stare of the officer's mask. His fingers twitched at his sides. His heart was drumming a deep bellied beat that almost interfered with his hearing.

"You, citizen, come with me."

Gordon turned and walked through the opened door after the officer.

He was now in a long ugly hallway, lined with metal doors and a harsh cement floor. Plaster walls with peeling paint and dried mold lacing the ceiling corners: it was almost toxically musty as a result, with stinging traces of salt and iron in the air. Each door had an eye slot, and one was open. Through it Gordon could hear a man's voice, the same man he saw taken earlier. "This must be a mistake," he was saying. "I submitted a standard relocation coupon just like everyone else…" But someone unseen shut the eye slot, cutting off the sound.

Meanwhile, Gordon's guard had knocked on a door further down the hall. It opened and the guard gestured roughly for Gordon to enter.

Inside was a large metal desk with several accordion binders and an electric lamp. There were two lonely filing cabinets settled against the walls, and to the far end, a wide, bulky computer system and control panel hosting black wires and blue, number-filled displays. And in the room's center, beneath a harsh incandescent light, was a red padded dental chair. Black grits and crimson blotches stained the tiled floor around it.

"Will you need help with this one?" said the guard who had opened the door.

"No, I'm good," replied the other. The door slammed, and Gordon was alone with just one guard.

Gordon saw the bucket at his best option.

"Back up," the guard snarled as he passed by Gordon to the computer setup.

 _I bet they can't breathe without those masks,_ Gordon thought.

The guard, with unbelievable negligence, was facing away from Gordon and working on the computer. "Yeah; I'm gonna need some privacy for this," it said, and several lights turned off on the computer: surveillance cameras. "Now," it continued, turning around and casually taking off the counterfeit Overwatch mask, "about that beer I owed ya -"

He could not finish the sentence, because he was smacked full in his exposed face with a tin bucket. And there was Gordon, leaping onto the desk with the small metal chair, ready to beat the Overwatch guard to a pulp -

When he saw the revealed face.

"It's _me_ , Gordon!" shouted the fake Overwatch guard. "Barney, from Black Mesa! For the love of Mike, don't hit me with that thing!"

Gordon did not put the chair down, but stood stock still on the desk for a moment, trying to process this turn of events. It was Barney Calhoun.

Gordon Freeman collapsed into the red dental chair, trying to keep his breathing under control. Barney stood beside him, wiping a drool of blood from his bruised nose and looking incredibly concerned. "Jeez, Gordon: I'm sorry to scare you like that, but I had to put on a show for the cameras. I've been working undercover with Overwatch civil protection…the last time we talked I promised a beer - y'know, you were pretty uptight then - so I see not much has changed."

Gordon said "…just been a bit of a rough day."

Barney couldn't help but laugh at that. "It's been a bit of a rough sixteen years."

Barney, even without the mask, wasn't immediately recognizable to Gordon, having aged as much as Dr. Breen: sixteen years. Although still the same short, stocky build, he looked more tired and hardened than bouncy and energetic. Still the same dark brown wolfish hair, but it was finally beginning to thin, and shades of gray were emerging in his locks. And his face, handsome, if square, had grown far more leathery and beaten.

"So I guess you're not dead, then," Barney said, grinning again, quite uncontrollably, his voice laced with joking jollity. "'Cause I heard that you jumped into an alien portal to kill all the bad guys, and were never seen again. That's normally a 'ride off into the sunset' moment, isn't it? Bad form to return all of a sudden: that's Jesus' thing - makes _you_ look pretentious."

"I…guess so," Gordon said, affording a false smile, while in his mind, over and over: _He's not dead…My friend isn't dead…I though they all were…_

Meanwhile, Barney knew Gordon well enough to accept his terse, if only preliminary, answer. For Gordon, a smile, especially a false one, was as good as a paragraph. "Alright, listen, you've got some major explaining to do, but I can't take too long right now or civil protection will get suspicious. I am _way_ behind on my beating quota - I radioed Dr. Kleiner through the control unit while putting out the cameras. I know he'll want to see you. But then you're gonna need to high tail it out of here to his lab -"

A feed appeared on the control monitors: video of a sort of warehouse laboratory. A somewhat shrill but well-enunciating voice came from off screen. "Yes, Barney, what is it? It had better be good; I'm in the middle of a critical test."

Barney stood up before the monitor. "Yeah, yeah, sorry doc: but look who's here!"

An older, bony and mostly bald man in a dirty white lab coat and gray tie stepped in front of the feed, staring back at Gordon through thick black glasses. He watched the man's eyes widen and his mouth spread into an almost comical smile; Gordon knew the voice, face, and excited expression quite well, and he couldn't help but smile again himself.

"Great Scott! Dr. Gordon Freeman! Why, I expected more warning!"

"Yeah, you and me both, doc," Barney answered. "I caught this joker about to board the express train to Nova Prospekt!"

"Well good grief, Gordon, you will certainly have much to tell us…eh…good heavens - Gordon, are you alright?"

Gordon was in a cold sweat, and his hands were starting to shake. He could hardly sit up straight in the chair. _They don't know…they don't know what I've become…I want to hug them…but I can't…I'll burn them…_

" - um, Barney," Kleiner continued, greatly concerned, "what do you intend to do, exactly? He would be safest here at my lab -"

"I'm thinkin', I'm thinkin'," Barney said, biting his lip, glancing at a separate feed on the monitor.

"Alyx is around here…eh, _somewhere_ ," Kleiner suggested. "I'm sure she would have an idea of how to get him here safely. Or, at least get him here."

"Yeah, well, as long as he stays away from checkpoints, we should be okay…"

"You lost the HEV suit, though," Kleiner noted towards Gordon worriedly. "Are you injured at all…? Barney is he in any condition to travel…?"

Gordon abruptly stood up from the chair, sucking in a breath. "I'll be fine."

Barney interrupted. "Listen, I gotta go doc. I'm getting word from Erikson that the heads are surprise inspecting right now -"

"Oh; very well…But Gordon?" Kleiner smiled broadly. "Good to see you."

The feed switched off. Barney began hiding and erasing certain features from the monitors while talking. "Okay, Gordon: you're gonna have to make your way to Dr. Kleiner's lab yourself - it's just around the…well, it's pretty complicated, actually…"

There was a loud, strong knocking at the door, and Gordon could hear the muffled rasp of Overwatch voices from behind it.

"That's what I was afraid of…!" Barney snapped. He ran to one of his filing cabinets and shoved it out of the way. Behind it was a door, bolted shut with a large, black spiderlike device fixed to the wall. Too quick for Gordon to see, Barney unlocked it and pushed the door wide open, revealing a spacious storage closet. Gordon hurried inside.

"Alright, just pile some stuff until you can reach the window up there. And just head for the plaza outside the train station. You can't miss it. I'll try to meet up with you there to take you to Kleiner's -"

The door shut.

Gordon could still hear the Overwatch soldiers banging on the door - _did they force their way in? I can hear their radios -_

He didn't stay longer to check. He'd had his respite; he was in danger mode again. He shut out everything else before he went insane; so many emotions, so many whirling thoughts and things going wrong…but nothing mattered right now, nothing _could_ matter right now, except the next objective. He could reevaluate when he got there, but right now…He scrambled up a ladder onto a second story shelf and heaved several wood boxes towards a high sitting window. No time to look for weapons. He couldn't carry one with him anyway.

He heard commotion from the other room. Heart pounding again, he threw open the window and climbed out. He was in a small yard enclosed by high stone walls. It was an eight foot drop to the ground. Gordon aimed for a crate.

CRASH.

He tumbled as best he could, but the bruises on his palms smarted. The crate was half rotten and had broken under his weight. He wondered if the Overwatch heard him. And then he stopped wondering, because he didn't have time to wonder. He flew open the only available door in the yard and found himself in a storage basement, lit by dim lights illuminating a metal staircase. It led up to a door that opened into an empty corridor, back inside the train station.

Just as Freeman pulled the basement door closed, an Overwatch guard rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, halting at the sight of Gordon.

The guard radioed something unintelligible.

Gordon eyed the corridor for tools: some cans, a plastic wrapper, but right next to the guard he noticed an overflowing trashcan, likely never changed in sixteen years - there had to be something in there he could use to -

The guard used the tip of its baton to knock a can out of the dumpster and onto the floor.

"Pick up that can," it said.

Gordon remained frozen as his brain loaded a response. He finally moved forwards, squatted down, picked up the can and put it back in the trash.

He heard a rhythmic measure emit from the guard. Gordon realized it was laughter. "Okay," it said, "you can go."

As Gordon passed him by he thought, _Alright, maybe these guards aren't alien. Maybe they're all, or mostly, human volunteers. Thugs on a power trip?_

He wandered through empty, spacious chambers. Somehow, it was hard for Gordon to associate them with their function as a train station because of how empty and unused it was. Occasionally a fellow citizen shuffled past him, sometimes a group or trickle, but no one talked, joked, or showed emotion. They could feel the insect visors staring at their necks, the batons occasionally sparking as a reminder. The biggest group of citizens that Gordon saw was a queue of ten people in the ticket lobby: they were receiving new sets of scrubs from an automated dispenser. On another screen looming above them was Dr. Breen's forthcoming face displayed in high definition.

"…to address the anxieties underlying your concerns," he was saying, "rather than try to answer every possible question you might have left unvoiced. First, let us consider the fact that for the first time ever, as a species, immortality is in our reach. This simple fact has far-reaching implications. It requires radical rethinking and revision of our genetic imperatives. It also requires planning and forethought that run in direct opposition to our neural presets…"

Gordon was filing Breen's words away; it registered as too much for him to ponder on now. Instead, he continued through the room, his eyes darting to keep track of the guards. They seemed uninterested in him, but Gordon was not comforted. Eventually, he saw a citizen walking towards a set of double doors and pushing them open. Gordon followed her outside into the plaza…

…and halted.

A monolith rose from behind the cityscape, erected into the clouds, like a titan's sword piercing the sky to bring down a flood. It was a gray and cobalt shaft, mechanical and threatening as the barrel of a military shotgun. It was a metal mountain impaled into the city's center, hazy in the distance, the morning sun gleaming to its right. It had a hundred black cables, barely visible silhouettes, curling down from the tower's base like squid tentacles into the city below.

"…I find it helpful at times like these to remind myself that our true enemy is Instinct…" Breen continued from another screen: this one was mounted to an old city monument, an Egyptian-style monolith, in the center of the spacious plaza. Thick telephone cables ran from the screen to the surrounding buildings, mimicking the tentacles of the tower behind it.

"…Instinct was our mother when we were an infant species. Instinct coddled us and kept us safe in those hardscrabble years when we hardened our sticks and cooked our first meals above a meager fire and started at the shadows that leapt upon the cavern's walls…"

The plaza had once been a roundabout in the city streets, but all was restricted and blocked off by harsh cobalt gates jammed between the hollow shells of shops and apartments. The gates' openings were protected by a watery blue energy field, through which citizens, silent and downturned, would enter and exit, making the scene like a chamber in an unusually empty ant farm.

"…But inseparable from Instinct is its dark twin, Superstition. Instinct is inextricably bound to unreasoning impulses, and today we clearly see its true nature…"

Gordon slowly walked forwards. His mind had been swallowed by the tower - all else seemed meager detail. He could not understand how something so big and yet so artificial could withstand its own weight. He had not seen anything so _tremendous_ even on Xen…nothing so purely _imposing_ …

"…Instinct has just become aware of its irrelevance, and like a cornered beast, it will not go down without a bloody fight…"

Gordon heard, from across the plaza, a guard's radio gargle. It broke the spell of the edifice on Gordon, jerking him back into the danger zone. What was he doing? That's right, he was looking for Barney. Or waiting for Barney. _He didn't have a plan, though - he wasn't expecting me. Barney is not reliable right now - he's trying to salvage his cover. I can't wait too long; everyone's moving and military governments do not like loitering._

The Overwatch patrolling the edges of the plaza were all beginning to look in Freeman's general direction.

 _Not good. Very bad._

Freeman began walking at a casual pace to his right, the only path he could see without an energy gate. It was a wide alley where the wind sweeps all the discarded papers and cardboard boxes of the city. There were only two other citizens passing through this way, both a good distance ahead of him.

Freeman suddenly noticed it was rather chilly in the shade of the buildings. There was only a slight breeze, but the morning wind gave him goosebumps under his thin scrubs. He rubbed his arms for some warmth.

As he did so, he passed by an apartment that Overwatch were apparently searching - one guard stood watch at the door, inscrutable behind its gas mask. Gordon glimpsed other soldiers behind it in the apartment lobby, but they weren't tossing the place…no, they were rounding people up…there were several people in scrubs, facing the far wall of the lobby with their hands on their heads…

The guard's head turned to follow Gordon as he passed by. _Kill him,_ Freeman thought. _Kill all the guards. Save those people._ His mind's eye saw a gunshot hitting marine Kevlar. He saw machine gun fire tear a marine's face apart. One of the security guards was hysterical because his friend was eaten by…

He shook it off as best he could. He had no HEV suit. He bled easily.

Around the corner, at the end of the street, there was another security gate, with a black light-weight tank parked in front of it, and two guards watching the civilians pass through. Behind the gate, a two-story tall, three legged alien behemoth tramped by - a Daddy-Long Leg in a green and blue exoskeleton. It had a mini-gun for a proboscis, and its footfalls rattled the nearby window glass.

 _Alright. Alien pack animals. Alright._

The guards turned and looked towards Freeman, who turned, casually as he could, into a narrow alley. There in the crack between buildings there was some pathetic ivy and untrimmed grass making a go of it. Gordon passed through quickly to the next street, To his left, he could see the giant armored bug lumbering further into the city. There was also another security gate and armored tank; a citizen was up against the wall, his body shaking - another was on the ground -

One guard turned and looked towards Freeman who promptly walked the other way down the street. As he did, he realized a floating camera drone was following him, occasionally flashing pictures of the back of his head.

The narrow street ended in a small, enclosed block of apartment buildings. The cement sidewalk was strewn with autumn leaves, and the city trees were morbidly bare. Wild grasses sprung up sparingly in the confined yards, amongst the rusted metal and decrepit plastic of an abandoned playground. Two citizens stood on their apartment's porch, looking down the street at a pair of Overwatch officers guarding another raid on a residence. One of the citizens was saying, "This is how it _always_ starts: first the building, then the whole block."

The other: "But, they have no reason to come to our place."

"Don't worry, they'll find one."

They both turned towards the approaching Gordon. They both shook their heads at him in dismissal, and one thumbed down the street to the left of the Overwatch, at an open apartment building door. Gordon wasn't sure what they thought he wanted, and considered asking, but he realized they would have already spoken if they were comfortable with it. There was a drone following him, after all.

The drone flashed another picture of Gordon's back, so he began a brisk walk down the sidewalk, straight towards the door, and thus straight near the guards. If he turned around and went the other way they'd be suspicious. So now he was a citizen. A regular citizen. He was just returning to his innocent residence, nothing new.

He passed a swing set, monkey bars, a play merry-go-round, a slide… _How stark, seeing it so empty. Kids can't play outside anymore…_

The drone did not follow him into the open apartment building. The hallway walls were cheap, old, thin, and painted salmon. They were attacked by slews of rotting posters rendered indecipherable by time. Soon he found himself in a tiny atrium furnished with a cardboard box, a set of double doors, a wood staircase in a square spiral upwards, and an elevator bolted with a spider-lock. None of it was terribly important to Freeman. It was all just detail.

He thought he heard sounds of distress. He went up the stairs.

On the second floor, halfway down the hallway, a small team of Overwatch soldiers were knocking roughly on a door. A civilian was poking her head out from another room to watch. Suddenly, one of the guards kicked the door open and the team flooded in. There were sounds of screaming and violence. And one guard remained outside, standing in the hallway, staring Freeman and the other citizen down. Then slowly, it followed its comrades in, while the curious woman ducked back into her apartment like a mouse to its hole.

Freeman thought about continuing up the stairs, but saw another guard on the floor above him and thought better of it. Instead, he sought refuge with the woman in her apartment; she had left her door unlocked, and Gordon simply walked in, to no one's apparent objection. The apartment had four rooms: a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. He counted over fourteen people inside. Three women, all over thirty, were bundled together in sleeping bags on the kitchen floor. Two forty-year old men sat at a wooden dining table. A young man, possibly twenty, was squatting against the wall. A fifty-year old woman was washing scrubs in a clotted sink. Another five citizens were in the living room: a young man and woman stood by the windows - the same woman looking outside earlier - and three men were lounging on the couch, two elderly, and one probably a little over seventeen. They were watching a makeshift television set, currently broadcasting Dr. Breen's white-bearded face and charismatic voice. Gordon could glimpse two more citizens in the bedroom: a thirty-year old man comforting a sobbing woman of similar age.

No children.

The only greeting he received was: "Oh! I thought you were a cop." Otherwise, no one was speaking. They all could easily hear muffled shouts from the neighboring apartment. The tension in the rooms was strung as tight as a tripwire.

"…thank our benefactors," Breen was saying from the television, "for giving us respite from this overpowering force. They have thrown a switch and exorcised our demons in a single stroke. They have given us the strength we never could have summoned to overcome this compulsion. They have given us purpose. They have turned our eyes toward the stars…"

Gordon blinked at this. No children.

One of the citizens by the window was saying: "Look at them down there."

"You see? I _told_ you they'd be coming for us next-!"

"Just this once, I hope you're wrong."

"Let me assure you," Breen continued, "that the suppressing field will be shut off on the day that we have mastered ourselves - the day we can prove we no longer need it. And that day of transformation, I have it on good authority, is close at hand."

Gordon's eyebrows scrunched together and his eyes shut. No children anywhere. A couple crying in the bedroom. No one younger than sixteen. Suppression field…

From the window, he saw a tank-car had pulled up onto the curb below. Overwatch were approaching the building's doors. The man and woman both swore and shut the blinds.

"Special news bulletin," said a female voice from the television. "Special news bulletin: man wanted by civil protection for the murder of three innocent citizens. He is very dangerous - privilege increases are offered for his live capture. He was last seen in the borough of North 5th and Second South. Please report any information to -"

Gordon left the room before anyone could look twice at him. It was his own face posted on the television: his eyes screwed tight against the flash of a photo-drone.

He was met in the hallway by one of the guards from the raided apartment. Freeman, as casually as he could, turned around and started up the staircase again. The staircase guard had left; the only one in sight was behind Freeman, following him at a distance.

From outside, a bass siren began blaring at regular intervals.

"Hey you!" called a human voice. "Hey, in here!" Gordon was at the third floor and a fellow citizen was waving him over to his apartment. Gordon quickly followed, hearing the guard's footfalls on the stairs below -

"Civil protection is after you, friend. Saw you on the news. Head for the roof - there are pathways that can link you with the underground railroad -"

The chatter of Overwatch radios grew terrifyingly close, so the man shut the door and used a makeshift bolt to lock it. "Run as fast, but as quietly, as you can. There's a friend up ahead who can help you out, a young woman with a red streak in her hair. Follow the wooden ramps to the next building over -"

Something nearly broke the door down behind them. The man cursed under his breath and said: "Run! Get yourself out of this city, friend -"

The door splintered in the center. Blue lightning flared for a few seconds. There was a hole in the door now - Freeman was seeing red and green lightning…he was in the barrel chamber, his hand wrapped around something, he assumed a crowbar, he was going to slam it into the head of a monster - defend Clara Erikson from attack -

"RUN! DON'T HELP ME - RUN!"

Freeman suddenly realized he had grabbed a large slice of wood and was brandishing it like a knife. The Overwatch were almost through the door.

"RUN!"

Freeman ran. There were other citizens in the apartment - they had weapons and a few even had guns. _No…they aren't going to die just for one guy…one guy they don't know…?_

There was violence and screaming behind him. Gunfire.

There was another door. He burst through and was in a hallway. He saw no Overwatch to the right or left, but someone was standing beside him with a baseball bat. " _Nous avons déjà choisi, ami_ ," the man said. " _Vive la résistance,_ eh?" He finished with a sardonic laugh, and gestured roughly down the right hallway.

Gordon was running again. Running for a staircase - but Overwatch were marching up from the lower floors and Gordon saw the bright sparks of their batons. He flew up the steps, nearly stumbling over his feet, as their garbled voices snarled behind him. On the next floor he saw another door open and another citizen gesturing sharply - "Get in here, _quick_!" - and Freeman was rushing through another room, up more stairs, with the Overwatch and their destruction in his wake…He burst up through a trapdoor and found himself in a moldering but spacious attic. He saw windows further ahead, one already open, leading outside onto the rooftops. He rushed across the creaking wood floor and dove through the opening, managing to tumble across the brittle rooftop, scraping up his arms and palms. And now he was on a giant's staircase: rooftops of varying heights, crammed together, with thick wood boards serving as ramps between them. As Gordon ran, he heard the chatter of Overwatch behind him in the attic.

There was a gunshot. Gordon thought he heard a loud insect whizz past his ear. In surprise, he slid behind a brick chimney, taking cover. He breathed deep. Another bullet clipped the chimney's edge, shattering its aged mortar and leaving a small dust cloud in the air…the sky was still overcast. There were patches of blue. The wind was cold on the rooftops and the menacing tower brooded over the city… _Focus, Freeman. Focus…_ The next board was twenty feet away, straight through the soldiers' line of sight. But to his left, within ten feet, and with more chimneys in the way, was a cement ledge wrapping around the side of an apartment. It was thick enough to walk on, and it would put a building between him and the Overwatch.

He bolted for it.

A bullet flew past, just as he swung around the corner.

Now he was clinging to the wall, shuffling as fast as he could along the ledge to a neighboring building. He was at least thirty feet up. The ground, far below, rocked precariously with vertigo.

Gordon saw a soldier exit from a building just below him. Its back was turned to Gordon as it listened to its internal radio.

Gordon shuffled even faster. There was an open window, only ten feet away from him now.

The guard turned, stared at Gordon.

It drew a pistol.

Gordon was three feet away from the window.

It was aiming.

He was scrambling over the window's sill…

Three shots echoed through the street.

Gordon was through the window. He collapsed into an empty attic room. His left leg felt like it had been rapped with a baseball bat in two places. Dull aching…and his head was dizzy…

"No sweat," Barney was saying in his memory, "You're a doctor, not a soldier. It won't really start hurting until about a minute after, as the adrenaline wears off. So get something wrapped around to apply pressure. Your shirt will do fine...though that's all just assuming you aren't in that super hazard suit getup. Bullets don't get through that thing easy…"

Freeman saw his left leg was hit in two places. The scrub pants were spattered with blood, and the wounds looked like worm holes in a crab apple. He instinctively clutched at the surrounding skin to sooth his ringing muscles, but drew back when his warm blood began flowing -

 _I miss that suit. I really miss that suit._

Gordon was ripping his scrub shirt off and wrapping it around the wounds to stop the blood. His dark red fingerprints stained his white undershirt, while a sharp, intolerable pain began to spread through his leg, into his groin and stomach.

The siren continued to ring up and down the street, now joined by an artificial female voice sounding from a loudspeaker: "Attention residents: miscount detected in your block -"

Gordon was on his feet, gripping a neglected work table for support. He limped his way towards a down staircase, glancing over dusty supplies for a gun, a wrench, a crowbar…

"- Cooperation with your civil protection unit will result in high privileges and reward -"

Nothing worth using. Not in his condition. So he made for the staircase, trying his best to lower himself down them slowly - the wood moaned under his foot falls.

"- Failure to cooperate will result in permanent off-world relocation."

The wood stairs snapped under his weight. He fell six feet down to the next floor on a pile of shattered splinters. Through the walls, he could hear the garble of several Overwatch soldiers…he seized a sharp piece of wood and tried to brace himself against the wall, limping pathetically into a neighboring hallway.

Doors on either side of him broke open. There were the squid masks, white as bone -

Freeman stabbed one of the officers in the neck, just under the helmet. The last he saw was blood spray-painting his hand -

\- before a rod pressed Gordon in the small of his back -

\- his muscles lost control -

\- and everything ached -


	3. A Red Letter Day

2

A Red Letter Day

So Gordon," asked his mother over the phone. "Are there any nice young ladies at Black Mesa?"

"Yes," Gordon answered. "There's one in particular."

"Oh, really?" This was not what she was expecting, but it was everything she had hoped. "What's her name…?"

"Alyx. Spelled with a 'y'."

"How unique!"

"Uh-huh. She's the daughter of my mentor here, Dr. Eli Vance. He and his wife are intellectuals, so they like unique stuff."

"Interesting. So does she work at Black Mesa as well?"

"No, that would violate child labor laws."

A pause.

"Oh…?" his mother inquired warily.

Gordon continued with a dry smile. "She's eight-years-old. I think she has a crush on me. It's cute."

Gordon didn't hear any laughter from the other end of the phone; evidently Mom and Dad did not appreciate his little joke. So he tried to explain it to them. They did not seem to appreciate this either, and he gave up.

He did not feel bad, though. The older he grew, the less guilt he spared for his parents, and their poorly veiled hope for grandchildren. The older he grew, the more certain he felt that their blood was cursed to dry up with him.

* * *

" _Over here!_ "

\- everything ached -

"Ha! - no you _don't_ -!"

\- a fog was clearing - a white mist burning up -

"Hmm."

Gordon was looking up at a woman's face, framed by a decrepit plaster ceiling; he realized he was in the same room that the guards had flanked him in. He had felt a shock in the back that made him black out; he must have been struck with one of their batons. But now there was this woman standing over him, and for a moment Gordon wondered if she was an Overwatch soldier without a mask on.

The woman was coffee skinned, with thin oriental eyes and a flattish nose. Her short hair was pitch black, with a subtle dyed red streak down the middle; it was held back tautly by a bark-brown headband. She was not in Overwatch uniform, nor was she in civilian scrubs: she wore a faded, heavily beaten, beige leather jacket, the right sleeve duct-taped along the shoulder seam. Beneath it was a gray, hooded sweatshirt, and around her neck, as a kind of simple jewelry, was a black, thumbnail-sized square. On her hands: fingerless gloves, and weathered bandaging up her right forearm. A black belt and holster around her waist, and working jeans that looked as old as she was - which Gordon estimated was only a few years behind himself.

Her mouth spread into a wide, kindly smile. "Dr. Freeman, I presume?"

The smile suddenly disappeared as she glanced nervously to the side."We better hurry," she continued. "Another squad will be here in five minutes to find out what happened."

Gordon nodded, and tried to lift himself up, but fell back as spears of pain shot from his leg through his torso.

"Looks like you got a couple of mosquito bites on your leg there," the woman said. "And a bump on the head. Probably some burns from those spark clubs. Here, I'll help you up, c'mon."

She gave him a hand up, and with his arm draped over her shoulders, helped him limp his way along. Several Overwatch soldiers were strewn on the floor around them. Their legs were bent wrong. One's neck was clearly broken, and another's had a piece of bloody wood sticking out of it.

Gordon noticed several batons were pocketed inside the woman's leather jacket. _Trophies,_ Gordon thought. The idea disturbed him, and he became extremely concerned where this murderer was taking him…but Gordon was still disoriented from the shock…he couldn't keep track of where…or when…exactly…Oh, now they were inside a rusted elevator car. Now it was moving. _Stay awake, Gordon, stay awake. You've had worse._

And now the woman was speaking. "Dr. Kleiner said you'd be coming this way. Poor man was in a panic. Must not have occurred to him to give you directions, huh?"

Gordon did not answer, and was slumping more and more onto the woman in exhaustion. "As you can see," she was saying, "not exactly the easiest place to find on your own; you did remarkably well, though, all things considered. Hey, pay attention, yeah? Listen to my voice. Stay with me."

"Sorry," Freeman said, trying to perk up a little. She knew Kleiner. She said it nonchalantly. He relaxed a little, and, as sincerely as he could, he said, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," she replied with a broad smile, shifting his weight on her shoulders. "I'm Alyx. Alyx Vance. My father worked with you at Black Mesa…? Eli Vance…? I'm sure you don't remember me, though."

Gordon was feeling nauseous.

 _I remember you,_ Gordon thought. _I saw you just a week ago. You insisted you read_ The Magic Treehouse _to me. I had dinner with your family. Your mother told you to close your mouth when you chew, and not to bite your spoon. Now you're sixteen years older, and just broke the legs of several alien soldiers and took their batons as trophies and saved my life._

 _Kids grow up fast._

"Man of few words, aren't you?" she offered, her smile sly but encouraging. Freeman didn't know how to answer, so he didn't, and her smile faded.

The elevator halted. Its doors stuttered open.

"I was able to hotwire one of the Overwatch locks onto this elevator," Alyx said as she helped him along through a dim service basement. "Makes for a handy secret passage in plain sight; this building is practically rotting now, so I don't think any soldiers or Civil Protection volunteers have even _tried_ using it. And then they'd still have a few more hoops to jump through to get to Kleiner's lab…you still with me?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I need to lean you up against this wall here," which she promptly did, though he just slid down the wall and sat with his bandaged leg outstretched.

"Hey, look at that," she said. "You remember _him_ from Black Mesa?"

Gordon was seated near a poster-plastered wall. He was unsure what it was doing in a basement, or even if they were in a basement anymore; he had not been paying strict attention. In any case, the foremost poster displayed Dr. Wallace Breen, looking into the distance.

"Your old administrator," she was saying, as she fiddled with an electrical box on a different wall. "Don't get my dad started on Dr. Breen. You'll never hear the words 'traitor' and 'opportunist' used so many times in a sentence. You still with me?"

He nodded.

"Good. We've got medical supplies for you at Kleiner's lab: there should be enough Vortigaunt juices ready to heal you up in no time; just need to keep you conscious."

Something clicked in the electrical box, and the wall surrounding the poster suddenly indented. Alyx approached it and pushed it open, revealing a narrow concrete passageway. She immediately stepped over to Gordon, helped him up again, and started down it.

"Funny, you showing up on this day in particular," she offered, as they approached the end door. Alyx input a code into a wall mounted security lock. The door creaked open and they entered what was more clearly a basement: musty, cool, with white bricked walls and incandescent lights. "This is all part of our underground railroad. We've been helping people escape the city on foot, and sometimes have to take a detour to Kleiner's lab in the downtown warehouse, when the main route gets too dicey. And either way, it's such a dangerous route out of the city to my father's lab; they have to go through the old canals…the point is, _today_ we're finally on the verge of having a better way, and we've got your old research to thank for it."

The moment she said it, Gordon already knew: _teleportation_. _They're going to teleport people out of the city_.

They entered a more spacious basement room, looking particularly unfrequented. A pair of lonely vending machines stood against the left wall. They were both decorated with the same high definition photograph of a pond ripple, and were labeled in Arial white, "Dr. Breen's Private Reserve."

 _Old vending machines, old posters…I haven't seen a_ new _poster anywhere. So Dr. Breen was put in charge; he started a propaganda campaign. He continued normal, commercial human practices. Probably said he and the Overwatch, Combine, Civil Protection - whatever they are - were working together for humanity's betterment…and then he must have abandoned the propaganda when he had things more under control._

"Let me lean you up against something…" Alyx said, snapping him out of his reverie.

With Gordon secured, she approached one of the machines. And from over her shoulder, with a wry, if somewhat sad, smile, said, "Here, let me buy you a drink."

She slipped something into the coin slot, hit a sequence of buttons, lightly pounded the side of the machine, and the whole thing swung open on a set of hidden hinges, revealing yet another passageway that ended in a brightly lit room.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, as she helped him walk again. "Nice to finally meet you."

Gordon gave her an odd look.

"Meet me _again_ , you mean," he said matter-of-factly. "You'll have to finish that book for me."

She took greater delight in this joke than he'd anticipated, laughing out loud as she helped him into the bright room. Gordon did his best to offer a reciprocal smile, but then was hopelessly distracted by what opened up before his eyes.

It was a relatively spacious warehouse space: the ceiling was at least twenty feet up, hung with fresh fluorescent lights that sharply illuminated some five hundred square feet of grubby tile floor. The space hosted a great number of extraordinarily cluttered desks and tables: dozens of restored desktop computers running green-graphic simulations, a modified seismograph scribbling on an endless paper roll, collapsed mounds of scratch paper, makeshift control panels with exposed circuit boards and bottle caps for dials, leftover parts and plastic junk, a pair of six foot glass tubes filled with bubbling, clear orange fluid, a formidable pile of cardboard boxes and wooden crates in the corner, a dog kennel, a magnifying glass, a pair of odd, circular machines…

 _Yes, he's building a teleporter,_ Gordon concluded. _He's recreated my old-set up, just bigger. That's their "better way". They're going to teleport civilians out of the city…it's incredible they got the materials for it, under these circumstances…_

"Blast!" cried a voice from behind the pile of boxes. "That little…where did she get to this time? Lamar? Come out, Lamar!"

Dr. Isaac Kleiner rounded the corner, sixteen years older, now nearly bald, with sagging, wrinkled skin and large ears, and walking slightly stooped and quite a bit slower. But, he had the same eyes crinkled from smiling, the same harmless, absent-minded look, balanced with a piercing, analytical gaze. And still wearing, though faded and patched, the same white lab coat he wore at Black Mesa.

"Uh oh," Alyx called out slyly. "Everything alright, Dr. Kleiner?"

Without even looking at Alyx or Gordon, Kleiner continued in his slow-going search for what Gordon gathered to be his pet dog. "Oh, hello Alyx. I'm guessing you didn't find Gordon. So _no_ , not really alright. Not alright _at all_ , because Gordon Freeman is finally returned and may very well be in the hands of the Combine this very moment because of my _cursed negligence_ …and just to add insult to injury, Lamar has gotten out of her crate again! Why, if I didn't know better I'd suspect _Barney_ of trapping and -"

At that moment the doctor looked up, saw Gordon Freeman, and his train of thought jumped the rails. His eyes widened behind his thick spectacles, and his mouth was unsure whether to smile at Gordon or gasp at his bandaged leg.

"My goodness… _Gordon Freeman_. Thank heavens you're _alright_ … It really is you, isn't it?"

"I found him wandering around outside," Alyx said, letting Gordon sit down on a table. "Bit of a troublemaker, isn't he?"

"We owe a great deal to Dr. Freeman," Kleiner replied, regarding Freeman with great respect, "even if trouble does tend to follow in his wake. Goodness, Freeman…you really _haven't_ aged a day…Oh, don't worry, we have a fresh batch of juices for those wounds of yours. The Vortigaunts have been very generous with us. Which, indeed, is all thanks to your efforts in the border-world…er…terribly sorry to mention…em…well, here, let's get you fixed up and then we can talk as much as you would like -"

Kleiner was interrupted when Gordon abruptly arose from where he sat and firmly embraced the doctor, until both of their pairs of glasses were pushed askew by each other's shoulders, and poor Kleiner was starting to have trouble breathing. But Gordon wasn't thinking anymore. His leg hurt like hell's fire and so did his mind. Everything had caught up with him, everything all at once: finding his friends still alive, the Orwellian nightmare, the people dying for him, the people who had already died half on his account, because he pushed the crystal, because he worked at Black Mesa, because he wanted to teleport human beings so he could do something good for the world, a world that shouldn't want him…a world he single-handedly destroyed…Yes, all he could do, all he wanted to do now, was weep, sobbing thick hot tears and dripping snot onto Kleiner's lab coat.

* * *

Gordon's abrupt embrace put poor Kleiner rather on edge; he feared, quite reasonably, that Gordon's mental health had been disturbed by his sojourn on the border-world, and he vainly attempted to submit the tacit scientist to an amateur psychiatric evaluation while Alyx treated his leg. Understandably, Gordon was in no mental condition for such an examination, assuming that he would have submitted to one anyway. He refused to answer any of Kleiner's questions, but perhaps as karma, he was unable to answer any of his own, either. _They knew I was coming back, but how? Why aren't they more surprised? They said "Vortigaunts" told them…? What do they think happened?_ Kleiner, in any case, was only dissuaded from his purpose when Gordon finally admitted in as few words as possible that he had no idea what was going on.

"What _is_ a Vortigaunt?" he said.

Kleiner and Alyx shared a look.

"Vortigaunts told you I was coming back," Gordon added, implying it as a question.

Alyx said quietly, "Gordon…how long have you been back on Earth?"

"About two and a half hours. I was in Xen, and then I woke up on a train in City seventeen."

"Good lord…" Kleiner said, his eyes wide. "No wonder you were so shaken…"

Gordon nodded subtly, and waited.

After a few moments, Kleiner finally began: "I understand, of course, if it distresses you, but whatever exactly you did in the border-world changed the Vortigaunts…em… _dramatically_. Apparently, the same…I was told that some being was holding open the crystal? Yes? Well, apparently it was also controlling the Vortigaunts' actions…"

"The Vortigaunts are the hunchbacked aliens you fought at Black Mesa," Alyx said abruptly.

"Em, yes, thank you, Alyx…the point is, Dr. Freeman: those creatures you were fighting in Black Mesa, the hunchbacked ones…they are now our most important allies in our efforts against the Combine Overwatch…"

Gordon was already half lost in thought. _The Vortigaunts_ : gruesome looking beings; roughly humanoid: with two legs, two arms, and a head, but with nearly every other variation from humans that is possible. They were hunched over because their spines were like mountain ranges protruding up against the skin of their backs. Their head and neck looked like a tubeworm that tried to swallow a red marble whole, but the ball's girth split the head open from the inside, creating a complex of bulbous, crimson eyes. They had long, ape-like arms with two extended, opposable fingers, and crooked, birdlike bowlegs ending in triangular hooves, like mutant satyrs. Gordon remembered their ugly, burbling tongue; it was how he knew they were around the corner, with electricity dancing on their fingertips, waiting to set his skin on fire. But his H.E.V. suit could act as a crude lightning rod, giving him enough time to crush their heads in with a crowbar…

Kleiner was explaining how they had inhuman forms of perception, which, as far as he could discern, gave them something like a gift of prophesy. This, among other things, contributed to a distinctly alien psychology, so that despite their incredible ability to actually speak human languages understandably, there was still a considerable gap in communication between humans and Vortigaunts, which was only bridged at all by the humans' desperation and the Vortigaunts' surprisingly Buddhist calm and evenness, once their slave driver was killed by Freeman.

 _The Vortigaunts have a fascination with me,_ Freeman reasoned. _Kleiner's not mentioning it, but that's the only reasonable conclusion: I released them from slavery, so they do everything in their power to track what happened to me._

The Vortigaunts had begun, more and more, to mention in their conversation "the Free Man".

"The Free Man comes again," they would say. "Soon, soon, the Free Man comes again."

"You see, the Combine Overwatch," Kleiner explained, "after the Black Mesa incident, and after the military destroyed the facility, after some several dozen of us managed to escape safely - we can share that little story later, of course; it's quite exciting - ahem…well, the Overwatch were drawn by the original ruckus the portal had made in Xen's galaxy, and so they reopened the portal with ten times the energy originally used, which, of course, caused severe Resonance Cascade storms across the planet…well, at least, that's the closest I can come to categorizing them, they really are beyond anything I've been able to study so far…but the point is, you see, that this caused millions of other tears to open across the Earth, letting all kinds of fauna from Xen crawl through all over again. It did wonders for the ecosystem, as I'm sure you can imagine. And even sixteen years later these original shockwaves are still being felt, albeit far less dramatically. Just a little tear here or there; it was my theory, therefore, that even as late as today, you could somehow fall through one of these tears, if you hadn't already…or else you could summon the energy to…well…evidently you just fell through…?"

Gordon did not deny the idea. He simply nodded.

Gordon learned that the Combine decimated Earth's combined military might within seven hours of their arrival. Somehow, the peace was negotiated by Dr. Wallace Breen, which naturally made him the most important and powerful human on the planet, the mouthpiece of the new gods.

As for _the Combine_ : they were intergalactic conquerors, an alien Roman empire. The menagerie of monsters on Xen was not one species: they were alien _refugees_ from different worlds, all conquered by the Combine Overwatch; they were an intergalactic ghetto-zoo, swept into a corner, with the dead spiders and dust, scrambling on top of each other for survival in the barren crags of the border-world. The brain fetus was the last of its own kind; the rest were killed back on its home planet. And in desperation, it took control of the Vortigaunts to protect itself. When the Combine figured out where the refugees were all were hiding, the fetus took advantage of the portal and held it open, sending a Vortigaunt army through to slaughter any resistance, so that all the refugees could escape to Earth

 _Xen wasn't invading. They were running away…_

"The Vortigaunts do not seem to be clear on what the Combine wants. No more than we are, anyway. And obviously we cannot trust Breen's promises at face value; he is either a puppet or a co-conspirator; maybe both…but some things seem clear enough…draining the oceans, strip mining the rich countries, and otherwise stealing our resources. But none of that requires controlling the human race, given their firepower…I have no doubt they could wipe us out right now, if they wanted…"

"Breen claims that they're here to help us become immortal," Alyx interjected.

"Hmm, yes, and there is intelligence on our end that suggests civilians have been kidnapped and experimented upon…"

Gordon interrupted suddenly. "Where are the _children_?"

There was an unpleasant pause.

"The citadel…the giant tower in the city…" Kleiner began, "Well, it produces a specialized electro-magnetic frequency…except…well, it's not strictly electro-magnetic…but it blocks certain enzymes…"

"Nobody wants to have sex anymore," Alyx jumped in again, rather impatiently. "And even when people do, it doesn't work."

Gordon looked back and forth between his two friends.

He remembered Breen's speech, broadcasted through the city, stored in the back of his head _…let us consider the fact that for the first time ever, as a species, immortality is in our reach. This simple fact has far-reaching implications. It requires radical rethinking and revision of our genetic imperatives…_

"Gordon? Are you quite alright?"

" _Thank our benefactors_ ," Breen had said, " _for giving us respite from this overpowering force. They have thrown a switch and exorcised our demons in a single stroke. They have given us the strength we never could have summoned to overcome this compulsion. They have given us purpose. They have turned our eyes toward the stars…_ "

Freeman decided. Whatever else the G-man had planned for him, whatever specifically was in store for him in this space and time, Freeman was going to destroy that citadel. He would do everything he could to end the Combine's reign, but if anything, he would level that monstrous structure to the earth. Something primal had finally been threatened in Freeman, something unconscious, something so important to Freeman that he wasn't clearly aware of it…a line had been crossed and the decision was made, almost without Freeman's conscious approval. He was going to destroy it. It was the last straw.

"Gordon," Kleiner was saying uncertainly. "I know you are likely…em…sensitive about this…but I… _we_ …need to know what precisely happened to you after you leapt through that portal."

A chill ran through Gordon again. _They don't know about the government man,_ Gordon was thinking. _Do I tell them?_

No…everything felt "off". The warmth of seeing Barney and Kleiner again was fleeting, at best. He was glad they were alive. He was glad they were living out their lives with a sense of meaning. But that didn't mean he _cared_. Was he heartless for that? He didn't know. All he knew was that he felt like a shade, long dead, long faded against a heroic sunset, but dragged back from the grave by the devil in a spotless suit.

He would tell them everything else, even about his stasis, and his waking up on a train. But not about _why_ he was in stasis… _why, you see my friends, I have no idea what happened. I killed the monster, I wandered for a while on Xen, but then there was a mysterious flash of light and I was on a train. Time distortion must have happened. How strange. But its par for the course, as far as Xen is concerned. Yes, you can perform some tests on me, Kleiner. I don't mind, I swear._

But he would not tell them about his deal with the devil. Not about what he had really become. It was not their concern, not their business, that he was a lone space cowboy now, ha ha. An intergalactic gunslinger, ha ha. He was only here to save the day, no longer. They'd figure it out when the time came. But now, he would keep his cloak of mystery tightly wrapped around him, and his newest purpose tucked closely to his heart: _I am a shooting star; I am cold from afar but hot to the touch, and I will burn the citadel to the ground._

* * *

That evening, after Gordon had calmed down, and his wounds had been tended to, and he had received adequate explanations, the dark-haired sharp-eyed M.I.T. graduate reclined on a rugged, lumpy sofa in one of the warehouse's large storage closets, since remade into housing for refugees on the underground railroad. Right now they were unoccupied, so Gordon finally had what he wanted; a room all to himself, a place to think.

It was doubly helpful for Gordon that his leg needed time to lie still; according to Kleiner the quart of Vortigaunt juice they injected into his veins would naturally locate and disintegrate the bullet shrapnel and accelerate the healing process; nevertheless, it worked best when Gordon kept his heart rate down and the wounded body part at rest, so that the juices did not also get too excited and start rupturing the tissue instead of healing it.

Gordon stared up at the ceiling and its ugly fluorescent lights. He imagined the lights were galaxies, and thought about space and portals and the inhumanness of Xen. Then he thought about teleportation and quantum physics and the cold purity of mathematics. He thought,

|Φ±} = (1/√2) (|0} _A_ ⊗ |0} _B_ ± |1} _A_ ⊗ |1} _B_ )

 _First Bell state for two qubits in canonical entangled states._ Yes, he could almost _taste_ the equation in his mind, or grip each of its variables in his hand, enjoying their coolness and rigidity and awe-inspiring simplicity of beauty. So much power in just a set of numbers and letters, in just an idea expressed. So much he could wield on a chalkboard. And then to see it peel off the chalkboard and into a laboratory, to see it confirmed, to realize that this little, nearly unintelligible idea has become a very real tool in his hand to change the world.

However, these musings weren't enough to distract him from the real problem: _I want to be with Dr. Kleiner, and just to sit and talk and experiment and open up to him like I was starting to…just about little things, stupid things. But I don't want to. Everything is different now. It's been sixteen years…and I want to just go away…that is far easier, and it's just what I'm geared for. Hm. Mom and Dad hated that; it's no wonder why. I just leave. If the government man were to come right now to whisk me away, would I resist? Or would I go willingly? Perhaps I'd even embrace the G-man as my savior? Hug him like I hugged Kleiner?_

There was a knock at the door. Freeman didn't feel like making noise, so he waited to see what would happen. After a minute or so, the door opened and Alyx Vance poked her head in. Upon seeing Gordon awake, she casually entered, closing the door behind her, and pulled up a stool near Gordon's sofa.

"How's it feel?" she asked.

Freeman shrugged.

"How are _you_ feeling?" she pressed.

Freeman blinked, but didn't answer otherwise. He considered asking her to leave. He wasn't really in the mood for talking yet. But he kept quiet, perhaps because he didn't feel like saying anything at all, either way. Alyx, meanwhile, did not seem like she would answer to a dismissal at this point. She clearly had things on her mind - Gordon could almost see the thoughts twisting and turning behind her bright, intelligent eyes.

Sure enough, she rather suddenly began speaking, with the tone of a mild storyteller: "I remember that day, when Black Mesa fell apart; Dad went down for work, like usual. I didn't see him because he left early; _really_ early in the morning. And I had Cheerios for breakfast and Mom was really kind of tired because I was being a pain…and we heard sirens going off, and were rushed off by security guards; I didn't know what was happening. It was all still so innocent for me. And…well…I got put with the other children, and Mom was supposed to stay with me but she wanted to get Dad out of there. And I saw Dad again, a few days later, but not her…and, uh, some of the guards loaded all of us on some trucks and hauled us out of there, and I was not easy to deal with, I was screaming and crying because I wanted Mom and Dad…"

She paused, staring off into space, as though to gather her thoughts. Freeman did not take his eyes off of Alyx for a moment, and had not yet blinked.

"Dad told me later that he and Kleiner and a few others got out before the military started bombing…though he's never told me how, exactly. I guess they just mixed luck and determination. He doesn't really like talking about it. Kleiner doesn't remember that much because he had a broken leg and had to be hauled around…anyway, I haven't ever seen Mom since…and…um…"

She took a deep breath.

"I'm trying to make a point; bear with me."

Freeman didn't move his eyes; they stayed rooted on Alyx, and to further reassure her, he gave a deliberate nod.

"A lot of other scientists never came out, either," she continued. "And you were one of them. You know I liked you best because you didn't treat me like I was stupid, and you let me read books to you. And I know this is really weird for you, seeing me all grown up…I'm sorry, it's hard for me to imagine it…because time didn't pass for _you_ , obviously, so you look the same as you did before, but that's what my mind expects…I wasn't expecting an old Gordon, even though that makes more sense…so I don't even notice the difference with you, but you notice it with me. Weird, huh?"

"Yeah," Gordon replied, a little hollowly.

"So good old Uncle Freeman died just like Mom…you know I really thought of you as more of a big brother, though. I thought you were the coolest guy in the universe..." She laughed at that, somehow unabashed in her sheepishness. "And you didn't come back out of Black Mesa, just like my mother. So many people didn't come back…"

… _Matthew Ashwell: Killed in the barrel chamber airlock…Bill Guthrie: Transformed into an alien monster in his office…_

"Are you getting my point, Dr. Freeman?" she asked suddenly, but continued before he could answer. " _Here you are._ You're sitting in front of me. You're alive. You're real…but you didn't come back from Black Mesa. Heck, they even had a story for _why_ you wouldn't ever come back: you jumped into a portal and shut it down. You were the hero. Seriously Gordon…a story like that…you don't hear about that kind of heroism, especially not about someone you knew as a kid. That's serious inspiration. Serious inspiration for me as a kid…But look, the point is you weren't supposed to come back, but here you are. It's incredible. So, all I'm saying is…thank you. Because now, maybe, just maybe, _Mom might come back somehow, too_. And maybe some of the others, even. It's stupid, and unrealistic, and I don't really believe it, but somehow my spirits are lifted anyway. Gordon Freeman came back from the dead. Anything's possible."

She took another deep breath. "I prepped that speech. Could you tell?"

Gordon shrugged. Alyx started laughing, and Gordon suddenly had a genuine smile. She seemed to like that. But just like with the lady in the train station, he started to feel a little nauseous; he was so at a loss about what to do in order to preserve the situation, to preserve the wonderful delicacy of this moment; yet, almost simultaneously, he felt that same near euphoria as he realized, _I inspired someone even while being a trillion miles away. My star's light reached her._ He wondered, _Can I do this? Is it possible for me to be a distant star? Or like Barney said, a hero who rides off into the sunset? When my time is done, when the devil comes for me again?_

He realized he hadn't responded to her for a minute straight, and he began predicting what she was thinking, and how to respond to each thought, and then he was backtracking, and then wishing that she would just go away…

"I'm sorry," he said blankly, but quietly. He was rubbing his eyes with one hand, his whole face tensed up and pinched together. "Sorry…just…don't know…I…"

Alyx frowned deeply. "Crap. I'm really sorry Gordon, I thought…I shouldn't have unloaded on you like that…I just - well it doesn't matter. Do you want to be alone…or…?"

"No," he interrupted firmly, if quietly. "I…thanks. Thank-you." He paused for another few moments. "I appreciate it. Very much."

Alyx smiled sadly, before replying, "Well, you're welcome, doc. But I'm still sorry. I'm not registered with the Combine records so I've had to lay low…pretty much my whole life now. I don't get to really _meet_ a lot of people…especially not people my own age, and when I do meet them, they aren't…well, they aren't really that smart, and they aren't tough…they don't wear their own clothes, they just wear those stupid scrubs, and I'm never going to wear those things again. Never. I don't care how much danger it puts me in. We all die anyway…man, sorry Gordon, I can't shut up."

Neither of them spoke for a minute, as they regarded each other with equally sharp, searching, unrevealing eyes. _She's staring right through me,_ Gordon thought. _Is this what it feels like when I look at people? What is she trying to find?_

Suddenly Alyx broke the moment: "You want to play Shuttle?" She asked lightly.

Gordon's look turned puzzled and he shook his head. _A card game? Or even a board game? Because she knows I can't move. But why would she want to play that? She's smart, she's got plans; she does things for reasons but she doesn't show her cards, just like me…nothing malicious intended, she's trying to help, but…_

"It's a card game," she replied.

 _One point for me._

"I made up the rules years ago," she continued. "It's one of my favorites. But no one will play with me anymore because I always win, of course. But your reputation precedes you, doctor; I think you stand a chance." By now she had pulled out a weather-beaten deck of playing cards from her jacket pocket and was beginning to bridge-shuffle them on her knee with great dexterity.

Up until now, Gordon had unconsciously regarded her as a mere stranger, a woman who was only claiming, albeit on reasonable grounds, to be Alyx Vance. But finally he was having flashbacks and _Déjà vu_ ; he remembered her less skilled eight-year-old hands trying to bridge the Chance cards for a game of simplified Monopoly that they never finished. The connection between the little girl Alyx and the woman before him was growing stronger, and thus, more disturbing.

 _Is she trying to get me to remember her? Does she want that big brother relationship again? She's starved for a friend…and she's already attached, she still thinks I'm 'all that' - she's got a bit of hero worship in her, and she's not stupid, she knows it, and has been trying to be nonchalant, but it's hard to hide; she wants to prove herself wrong by beating me in a card game? Or is it really just altruistic; she thinks it will help get my mind off things. There was a knowing glint in her eyes when she looked at me. She at least_ thinks _she knows what's up._

"- represent the Elite Combine teams. If you put one of those down, then you can remove a King from one of my hands so your Civil Protection can search it. If you find a card you need, you show it to me, and I get a chance to take it back before you can -"

 _Crap. Wasn't paying attention._ "- Um. Terribly sorry. Could you go back…?"

She saw through him. "You weren't paying attention, were you?"

"No."

She chuckled, but instead of restarting the rules she said, "I remember way more about you than is probably good for me, and I remember that you think a _lot_. You thought _everything out_ ; you were so smart. And yeah, look, you probably know I'm a little fixated, but I don't think you can blame a girl who doesn't have any friends and grew up knowing the myth and legend Gordon Freeman, who sacrificed himself to save everyone, and fix what he _technically_ started - So just bear with me, I'm trying not to be weird - Um…Gordon…?"

Tears were starting to run down his cheeks."Sorry," he said through gritted teeth. "It's nothing."

She gave him that analyzing stare again. "You still feel guilty for what happened. You think it's your fault."

"Yes. And no."

"Yeah…I know _that_ feeling..."

"But it's…it's just nice knowing that…someone saw it that way…as redemptive…or something…"

"As _heroic_ , doc."

"It was _not_ that; don't lie," he replied with unexpected sharpness.

"No, it _was,_ " Alyx said, matching his sharpness. She set the cards down and leaned in closer. "You don't have to feel like a hero to be a hero to people, doc."

Gordon Freeman nodded, eyes shut against more tears staining his glasses. He rubbed his face and wiped them away. "Thanks." He inhaled deeply, sniffing the mucus back in.

Alyx smiled, a wide, wonderfully sincere smile. "Anytime," she said, a little facetiously.

Gordon did his best to smile back. Then, "How do you play this game, again?"

* * *

Gordon found that the most difficult part of the game was not winning it - he had apprehended the game perfectly within five minutes of playing it - but rather, deciding whether or not he should let Alyx win. Someday he would explain it all to her as a kind of convoluted compliment; how he was so anxious that, somehow, he was going to fumble their reincarnated friendship; that some wrong move on his end would ruin the whole thing before it could really take root. He was very familiar with this anxiety; it was to Alyx's credit that he hadn't felt it to _this_ degree since his first real conversation with Barney Calhoun.

 _I lose the first game, maybe two, so she feels proud of herself, but then I just barely beat her, so she feels like she's succeeding as a teacher…_

 _But,_ he thought suddenly, _the game really isn't_ that _complicated…She's very smart, or seems like it…did she choose a game she made when she was younger - on purpose? Knowing that I'd figure it out? Because she wants to see if I'll let her win, or just go ahead and beat her? And if so, what's the right course of action? Does she want me to fake stupidity? Or to be honest? And is there a secret third or fourth option…?_

Fortunately for Gordon, Barney came to the lab and interrupted their game.

He and Alyx could hear him arguing with Kleiner outside the door: "Well, is he here or _not_?" "Yes he's here, but I don't want you being _rough_ with him, Barney; his leg needs the full time to heal -" "I'm not going to _wrestle_ with him, doc! I just want to talk to him - _there_ you are!" Barney cried out as he opened the door. His relief was immense. "Man, Gordon, you stirred up the _hive_. I had a fun time of it trying to slow Civil Protection down - almost got found out by the - well, they think I'm out with the search parties right now…man, Gordon…you really got _shot_?"

" _Yes_ , he was shot," Kleiner interrupted, stepping in behind Barney, and straightening his glasses indignantly. "Because for some idiotic reason you and I sent him out alone into a totalitarian police state to find a _secret location_ -"

"I didn't know he'd dropped back into reality _five minutes ago_!" Barney replied, irritated. "I saw him from a City Scanner getting off of a _train!_ I assumed he knew what was up!"

"Hey, guys," Alyx intervened. "No offense, but we're playing Shuttle. So unless you want to join in…"

"Sure, as long as it means I get to talk to Gordon," Barney replied. "C'mon, Kleiner, hop in."

Kleiner scowled. "Gordon, what would _you_ like?"

Gordon shrugged, so Kleiner gave a little "humph" and went to fetch a comfortable chair.

"I already got the long and short of your story from Kleiner," Barney added. "No need for you to go over it again. As for me, the long and short of mine is: all hell breaks loose, I rendezvous with Dr. Rosencrantz from the Theta Team, we find out about all their experiments and teleporters and what not, and he managed to hotwire one to get a bunch of us out of there just when the bombs started dropping. Then Breen got in bed with the Overwatch, Eli started a resistance, I infiltrated the Civil Protection and there you go. How you play this game, again?"

Gordon couldn't help but smile; this was one of the things that Gordon had come to love about Barney: his ability, even refusal, to take things too seriously; the authority of horrors to claim his sanity he met with a wolfish grin and a foot to the accelerator. Gordon recognized something of what he wanted to be within Barney: utterly unaffected.

"You know what this means, though?" Barney added, as they began playing. "None of us escaped Black Mesa _together_. Which means I can embellish my story all I want; heck, I can make up heroic parts that weren't there and take out the unflattering bits…"

"I for one," Alyx said, "killed fifty marines singlehandedly."

"How old were you then?" Barney asked, laughing. "Eight?"

"That's right."

"And Dr. Kleiner here," Barney continued, "is just being modest saying he had a broken leg. Really, you learned how to commune with the headcrabs and led an army of them to victory."

"Hm," Kleiner said.

"You had to marry Lamar, though. For political reasons."

"Yes, that's very funny, Barney," Kleiner replied. "I dare say I'll have to cut you down to size in this game of Shuttle. Given I can remember how to play. It was a sophisticated creation for a ten-year-old."

"I never got the rules," Barney said. "I just put cards down until Alyx beat me."

"That's why I never played with you," Alyx laughed. "Kleiner took it seriously, at least. And Dr. Rosencrantz did too, before…"

She tapered off. There was an unexpected silence among the three comrades, and their old friend Gordon, who had been soaking up their smiles and laughter up to that point.

So suddenly, he spoke up. "I launched a rocket into space."

They all looked at him, puzzled.

"I had to get a satellite up there. To get the portal to Xen working. I swear it's true."

This dry addition was so unexpected from Gordon that they laughed hardest at his joke. It was even funnier for Gordon, because it _was_ actually true.

Thus the game of Shuttle naturally disintegrated, as the four of them began talking and telling stories to Gordon, who was beginning, for the first in what felt like a long time, to relax, and feel like he didn't need to watch his back anymore. Nevertheless, he had little he felt like contributing, and enjoyed simply drinking in the interactions of his friends.

"Gordon," Alyx said joyfully, "Weren't you and Barney the top rankers from the Black Mesa training course?"

"You mean the one where you had to fire automatic weapons?" Gordon replied dryly.

"You should have seen his face," Barney chimed in, "I was posted in that chamber to make sure people didn't get themselves killed, and scientist after scientist would just talk and talk about how bizarre it all was, but Gordon comes in, and he picks up a gun, and he just gives me this look," Barney started laughing. "You were just looking over at me like, 'Oh, so we're going there.' You just raised your eyebrows a bit - Yeah! Yeah, just like that! And, I swear, I thought he was a surprise inspector, he just looked so…I dunno, like Gordon! He just comes in; I'm like, 'What, did I do something wrong?' I'm like, 'This wasn't my idea! They told me to teach them automatic weapons! Don't blame me!' Well anyway, you were one of the only people who took it really seriously; you kept coming back to practice, and I thought for sure you weren't a scientist, you were some kind of plant…"

"It was part of the training," Gordon explained. "I wanted to get better."

"Well, you certainly did that," Barney replied. "Unlike ol' Kleiner here."

"Hmph, yes, well," Dr. Kleiner countered, "I was busy negotiating with management for my tidy eight-figure salary. I believe my face on the cover of Time magazine helped immensely with that."

"Shots fired," Alyx said. Barney accordingly fell off his stool, clutching his heart like there were bullet wounds. "Hey now," Gordon commented, poking his own, healing leg. "That's bad taste in this company."

They went on like that for an hour or two. Gordon wasn't sure he'd even had this much fun in Black Mesa. It was a night for him to remember. Kleiner came in with some rations of food, and they kept on talking into the night, like friends around a dinner table, in a world sixteen years younger.

* * *

Gordon went to sleep at ten thirty; for all the exhilaration of talking with his friends, he had not slept for two or three days, at least, and his eyelids began to drape shut of their own accord. The plan was thus laid for him to lay low at the lab for a few more days, when they might consider moving him to a less precarious location. None of his friends mentioned the teleporter in the lab, just outside his new bedroom's door, and Gordon was very thankful for that.

He dreamed deeply and immediately: he dreamed of Black Mesa.

He had to make his way through the Black Mesa rocket engine test facility. He couldn't remember why…he was in a maintenance hallway that curled around the facility's circumference…he was searching for the control room…it was dark in the hallway, and horrid shadows were cast by the stark fluorescent lights. Gordon was walking cautiously; he had a tactical shotgun constantly trained on every point in front of him. It was fully loaded with twelve shells, another twenty held in the gear backpack he had stripped off a marine's corpse. It still smelled of blood.

The dream was vivid. He felt the density and weight of the H.E.V. suit again. It felt like he was cocooned in Kevlar, and the thick materials and plastics took a gradual but relentless toll on his muscles. It was like the Earth's gravity had increased by a fraction of a degree.

He opened a door. There was a scientist with a spider latched down on their head and face. They turned lethargically, like a slug, towards the noise of the door -

Gordon did not hear the sound of his gun: he simply watched the creature explode, along with most of the scientist's head. Green mucus burst like a paint-filled water balloon. Gordon wiped some of it off the visor of his H.E.V. suit's helmet. His heart was pounding. The creature felt too close, even while it was dead. He thought about shooting it again to make sure, but knew he needed to conserve ammo.

He hurried on - he saw another employee lying in a pool of blood, their gut slashed open.

He leaped back when the man began speaking in a bloody gurgle.

"Fire the test rocket…destroy that… _thing_ …before…before…it grows any larger…"

 _What thing?_ Gordon thought. _The zombie that I just killed?_

BANG…BANG…BANG…BANG…

Ah yes, Gordon remembered the sounds. The sound of something gigantic pounding incessantly against the interior of the test chamber. Something large, something hard, something able to smack against any point of the interior, one moment on one side, another moment somewhere else…

He was opening a door, he was in the control room - Oh yes, he remembered this part. He remembered it too well…there, there was…Gordon didn't know the man very well, but he recognized him, he had a very striking face, very angular and dimpled -

The glass of the control room shattered: a green, muscular scorpion tail burst through, as wide as a full grown man, its blade a five foot scimitar, with several gyrating pseudopods at its base - it crashed right into the scientist, smacking him full force against the back wall. And even then, the man remained conscious, screaming as the tentacle reached forward to embrace him with the little arms, and drag him over the broken glass, out into the test chamber, where two other arms were smacking against the walls, and something like a mouth was hiding in the darkness…the darkness…

And now there were soldiers decked out in gear, filling the air with lead, and the beesting-burn of bullets failing to penetrate the hazard suit, and the horrible spiced heat of leaking radioactive chemicals, green and viscous; green? Green like the portal? He was in the portal and everything was going black and neon green, and everything spinning, spinning, and Xen…Xen…marooned on a floating rock, the size of a baseball field, swarming with Vortigaunts, their hands flickering with electricity…he was tumbling down into a narrow cavity, he had to stay down there for he didn't know how long, before he could hatch a plan to get back on track…he had lived off of a thick, blue soup that welled up inside the alien island like blood from an open wound…the monster, the fetus monster, would not shut up, but kept crooning and groaning his name…he couldn't sleep…he couldn't sleep…

"There, there," said the G-man, with his insidious smile. "There isn't need to…feel _fear_ , Mr. Freeman… _I am always watching_ out _for you_ …"

He awoke in a frozen sweat, and promptly vomited on the floor beside his bed, quaking uncontrollably, his muscles both tight and lax, and his eyes hardly able to see. His brain was nauseous, and he wasn't sure quite what Barney Calhoun was saying to him, as Dr. Kleiner and Alyx rushed in to help…

* * *

The next morning - seven thirty, a few hours after he had convinced everyone he had fallen back to sleep - Gordon listened to his friends talking outside his door.

"I found the source of the noise," Alyx said. "Barney, someone's trying to contact you on the vidradio."

"Well, let's have a look." Barney replied.

Gordon rose, more-or-less steadily, to his feet, and went into the lab.

"Oh, Gordon!" Kleiner exclaimed. "You really shouldn't be…"

"I'll be fine. I'm feeling a lot better."

They were standing in front of what looked like a surveillance setup: there were a dozen old televisions stacked inside cubbies. Some were turned off, but most displayed black and white feeds of various urban locations, presumably surrounding the lab. The largest screen was in the center: it was two feet wide, and currently displayed a young man with thick blond hair suited up in the same Civil Protection gear as Barney. Gordon could tell, despite the poor video quality, that large beads of sweat were filling up the man's brow.

"Barney? Are you at the lab?" the young man said. His voice was slightly distorted with static.

"Of course I'm at the lab, Erikson. Doubted me, eh?"

"Shut up and listen!" Erikson snapped, and Barney's face immediately went severe. "Erikson, what's going on…?"

"They got ahold of Gordon's specs; I tried to corrupt the data but…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Hey, calm down, Erikson: from the top."

"The drone at the train station, it takes full specs on everyone coming off. Civil Protection has everything they need to find Gordon - they're running a drone sweep all over the downtown to locate him…I was able to get them started over on Brunswick Street, so you have some time, but no more than an hour -"

There was a banging sound in the background of the video feed.

"- No more than an hour!" Erikson barked. "Get Gordon out of there!"

"Erikson…what's going on…? Erikson-!"

The feed went dead.

Silence.

There was no smile on Barney's face. "We have to get Gordon out of here."

"But that is out of the question!" Kleiner exclaimed. "He is in no condition to travel!"

"Well we can't keep him here long doc!" Barney yelled back. "It'll jeopardize everything we've worked for! Those drones can identify specs from fifty feet ahead through solid concrete; they _will_ find him and all of _this_!"

"We can teleport him," Alyx suggested.

"That is out of the question, too!" Kleiner exclaimed.

"Wait, wait," Barney cut in. "You mean the teleport is _working_? For _real_ this time? Because I still have nightmares about that cat -"

"-What cat?" Alyx asked.

Kleiner raised his hands up defensively. "Now, now, hold on: I will admit that we have made major strides since then, _major_ strides; in fact, under better circumstances I would say Gordon came at a remarkably opportune time to help test it; why, Alyx just installed the last critical piece -"

"W _hat_ _cat_?" Alyx insisted.

Gordon was not paying attention. He was staring at one of the grainy surveillance screens, a small one in the bottom left: a man in a dark suit was standing beside a chain-link fence, straightening his tie. His gaunt face turned slowly towards Gordon, and he gave his old, familiar, malicious smile…

The camera flickered and he was gone.

 _…I am always watching_ out _for you…_

"Does the teleporter work, or not?" Gordon asked abruptly. Once again, his voice, by no means loud or aggressive, still halted all other conversation.

"It _should_ teleport a human being," said Dr. Kleiner, "but it has not yet been _officially_ tested in that regard."

"How long will it take to calibrate? Does it work on the same model as my old prototype?"

"The exact same model. Your equations are quite flexible. As such it will take no more than fifteen minutes to prepare it…Eli and I were planning to do more tests with it today, so it is all ready to go; but _Gordon_ -"

"The entanglement will not superstretch proteins?"

"We can't know for _absolute_ certain until we test it on a human, but _theoretically_ yes -"

"Then test it on me."

Kleiner's look became severe. "I will not do that!"

"Doc," Barney offered, "we do not have much time. This is our only shot."

"There is always another shot -!" Kleiner retorted.

"Like what?" Barney barked back.

"He can take the railroad!"

"That's a three day trip on foot," Alyx reasoned, "through a city and countryside he doesn't know, filled with drones looking specifically for him."

"And if they find me here in the next hour," Gordon repeated evenly, "we will _all_ die -"

" _No_!" Kleiner shouted, slamming his fist on a table so hard it shook. His expression was one of utmost exasperation. "I will _not_ repeat the same mistake that destroyed Black Mesa! I will _not_ charge in like some impulsive, uneducated, unscientific _ape_! No matter how much I trust or respect the one persuading me…I will _not_ be persuaded from what is prudent! I will _not_ be persuaded to risk you again, Gordon!"

Kleiner was red in the face, his glasses sliding down his nose on a rivulet of sweat. He was shaking where he stood: an old, old man. The room was silent, especially Gordon, who was disturbed to see his friend so old and frail and broken.

Alyx spoke up, "Kleiner…"

" _No!_ " Dr. Kleiner shouted again. "It was my fault…I destroyed you, Gordon…I agreed to run the experiment, let you go into the test chamber that day…I agreed to it, I didn't fight back…I was _excited_ …I was so excited to see you succeed, Gordon _…_ And _now_ look at you! _Now_ look at you…"

Gordon felt nauseous. He didn't know what to do and he hated it.

But Kleiner pushed his glasses back up his nose and wiped his face on his lab coat sleeve.

"I'm sorry, Gordon," he said. "I'm so sorry. I know we have to teleport you. I know…but I'm so sorry…Oh dear: Gordon, you know I'm not a hugging person -"

It was too late; the tall, bearded M.I.T. graduate firmly embraced his aged friend and senior for the second time. It was the only way to overcome his own consternation and nausea: to cut roughly through all the webs of worry, fresh and old.

"There wasn't a single moment," Gordon declared honestly, "that I ever even _thought_ to blame you, Kleiner."

The old scientist squeezed him back as best he could. "I presume you aren't just saying that," he said, sniffing back tears.

"You know I don't lie," Gordon replied.

"Hmph. I recall your resume to Black Mesa was rather unappealing as a result. It was _my_ recommendation that smoothed it over."

Gordon let Kleiner hear him laugh. It was the least he could do for a friend.

"Uh-huh, yeah…" Barney said from elsewhere in the room. "So, unless you two are gonna kiss, we might as well get him out of his civvies."

"What?" Kleiner said, breaking the embrace. "Oh dear, you're right. I almost forgot…well, Barney, while I calibrate the teleport, I will give you the honor."

Barney nodded, and on a panel behind him, he punched in a code. A garage door opened up beside him, revealing a small closet space, featuring a boiler, a complex of pipes, and a tall, glass tube preserving a grey and orange hazard suit.

"You're kidding me," Gordon said.

"I am not," Barney said, his usual humor returning. "Any more than I'm kidding about that beer I owe ya. We heard all about how well the H.E.V. suit served you in Black Mesa, so we went ahead and tried making another one. It's not finished though…there's no helmet, but everything below _that_ is as good as done. It's taken near fifteen years to get it this far, on and off, from what we could scavenge. We figured if we're teleporting you, you might as well take it along so it can get finished at Eli's."

He proceeded into the closet, looking around for the light switch.

"Ah! Here we goo _awaaahhh_!"

 _Fleshy spider. Size of a trash can lid. Clamps on your head and makes you a monster -_

It was perched on top of the suit's glass case, and when the light turned on, it leapt onto Barney's face, emitting a hoarse, frog-like screech. Gordon had seen it time and time again at Black Mesa. It had four crab legs, and six moist, fleshy fingers that served it like fangs. It was a giant, eyeless frog-tick that leapt from the shadows, burying its claws into the human brain. And now one was trying to clamp onto Barney.

Its front legs pedaled for a grip on his skull. " _Get it off me_!"

Gordon's heart beat was accelerating faster than a roller coaster: without even looking he seized a book from off the nearby counter and rushed forward to slam it across the crab. Just as Gordon swung, Barney managed to throw it onto the ground, and the book slapped Barney's nose so hard that a few flecks of blood spattered the glass case.

" _Crap, Gordon!_ "

Gordon wasn't listening; he was already drawing the pistol from Barney's holster and shoving him back into some cardboard boxes; Barney was too disoriented to fight back. Gordon now had the pistol out, aimed, finger on the trigger as the little frog-tick scrambled away…

"Lamar! _There_ you are!" Kleiner exclaimed at it.

Gordon didn't shoot. He realized that he was the only person in a state of panic.

"Gordon!" Alyx shouted. "Gordon, Gordon…drop the gun…its okay…"

As Gordon hesitated, the little beast pounced four and a half feet into the air, landing like a grasshopper on the top of a pair of metal lockers. Kleiner, a broad smile on his face, approached it.

"I dought you god rid of dat pest!" Barney shouted as he tried to plug up his bleeding nose.

"Certainly not!" Kleiner replied with fierce indignity. "Never fear, Gordon. She's debeaked and completely harmless. The worst she might do is attempt to…em… _couple_ with your head. Fruitlessly," he quickly added.

The creature was bobbing on its hind legs like a panting dog, its underbelly exposed, revealing a mouth of sorts not unlike a suckerfish. It turned in Barney's direction and gave a little fleshy croak, brandishing its front legs threateningly.

"Get dat ding _away_ fromb me!" Barney barked through his bleeding nose.

Kleiner sighed, but there was a slight tinge of mischievousness in it. "Here my pet: up, up!" he said, patting his head. Gordon reflexively shivered, his hand still on the trigger, and it was only Alyx firmly gripping his arm that reminded him to restrain himself. _Times have changed since Black Mesa. Sixteen years of living with these creatures…I shouldn't be surprised, no, I shouldn't be surprised. But I wish I'd gotten more sleep._

Kleiner stood awkwardly for a moment, his bald spot on open display, while the alien creature contemplated its next course of action.

It suddenly leapt, but not onto Kleiner's head: it grabbed hold of a wood storage shelf and began clamoring over the stacks of boxes; it knocked over an old computer monitor that shattered when it hit the floor - "No! Not up _there_!" Kleiner shouted anxiously to the beast. "No! No! Careful Lamar, those are quite _fragile_ -!" - Lamar leapt into an old, open ventilation duct hanging from the rafters, snaking across the room. They could hear its little body scratch-scratching its way along, until it came to a rest somewhere in the middle.

"Oh _fie_!" Kleiner snapped. "It'll be another _week_ before I can coax her out of there…"

"Yeah, _longer_ if we're lucky," Barney grumbled. "And I'm fine, by the way."

"Sorry," Gordon said simply, handing back the pistol.

Alyx started laughing. "Barney, you're not an animal person?"

" _Bleah_ ," he replied, with exaggerated shivers.

Alyx added in a lower tone to Gordon: "He's had much worse; don't worry about it. But are _you_ alright?"

Gordon nodded, but it was a lie. _I haven't been alright for the past few days, Alyx. Nothing new._

"Well Gordon," began Dr. Kleiner again. "my apologies for that. We haven't a moment to lose. Go ahead, slip into your suit now. I'll begin calibrating the teleport."

* * *

The suit took a good ten minutes to put on. Alone in the room, Gordon stripped down to his underwear, and ran through the memorized motions of layering the whole thing on. He felt like he was about to go into the barrel chamber, like it was another day at the office…he could smell the coffee and hear the equipment humming…

First, a layer of specialized interior padding, which helped reduce sweat and bolstered against breaking bones. Then, a layer of reinforced Kevlar, with special padding against radiation. Then the inner layer of reinforced plastic armor, and then the outer metallic shells. Overall, the suit gave him an extra inch of skin.

 _A knight in tarnished armor,_ he thought. Orange and grey armor, with the lambda symbol printed on the chest. The Lambda Complex had developed the suit from experimental military armor, and they loved to put their signature on everything.

 _So the G-man_ did _let me keep the suit,_ Freeman thought. _In an indirect way, at least._

Gordon was feeling a little nauseous, but he fought it back. He held his gloved hands out before him, flexing them beneath the material, and then finally balling them into tight fists.

The gunslinger was suited up again. It was time.

* * *

Gordon Freeman stepped back out into the lab, the suit dully shining in the lights. Everyone turned from what they were doing to look at him.

"Well, Gordon," offered Kleiner, "I see the H.E.V. suit fits you like a glove! Or…at least the glove parts do…?"

"It feels perfectly fine; thank you, doctor."

Kleiner nodded. "I've made a few modifications to the design, but…er…I will just acquaint you with the essentials here…" He rather shakily fumbled for a nearby clipboard with a stack of papers secured to it. "My little guidebook I cooked up," he said with a nervous pride. "Now let's see…er…'The Mark Five Hazardous Environment Suit has been redesigned for comfort and utility -"

An alarm sounded, faintly but audibly, from outside: deep, groaning, like the gravely clang of an old Church bell, drawn out as one long tone.

"Doc, we don't have time for this," Barney said sharply.

"Oh dear…"

"Just get Gordon juiced up and let's get going. We've got less than a half hour."

"Yes, yes…good idea," Kleiner said, setting the clipboard hastily down and stepping closer to Gordon. "There is a charger on the wall, there. I have modified your suit to draw power from Combine energy outlets, which are plentiful wherever they patrol. If you recall, the power is channeled through the outmost layer of the suit and provides a form of defensive…well, anyway, you know how it works…"

He showed Gordon a slightly rusted device bolted to the cinderblock wall. It was a flat, somewhat artistic complex of dark metal, totaling about the size of a human head and neck. It formed a rough arch, with a circular indentation in the center and a small tube of neon orange attached just below that. A small button was available above the tube. A small connector was dangling from the bottom by a family of thin, black wires.

"Just plug the connector into the chest piece on your suit, and begin pumping the button - that will restore the suit's power. There should be enough juice left in this old one we stole to last it a little while. Just in case, of course."

Gordon acted accordingly. The Combine charger gave off a low droning hum as the little syringe pushed the orange fluid up into the stomach of the mechanism. Then Gordon felt the familiar, ethereal tension of static electricity and magnetism, as the suit absorbed and maintained the energy. After a minute the sensation faded.

Meanwhile, Dr. Kleiner, via another computer panel, unlocked a large sliding door half disguised as a wall; it drew back to reveal - "The teleportation platform, designed specifically for human beings," Kleiner explained, as he ascended a ladder onto a control panel on one side of the room. Opposite to him was the platform: it looked like an old, open grate elevator, installed between two vertical tracks of metal beams. But it was a circular elevator instead of rectangle, and it featuring four metallic half hoops attached to a rod on the back of the platform: it resembled a spine with open ribs. The rest of the room was dedicated to computers and large, makeshift blocks of technology and power cables, all linking back to the teleport platform.

Alyx headed straight past Gordon to an array of devices and monitors set in another wood cabinet near the teleport platform. She began typing on the keys and tuning certain dials. The largest screen sprang to life, featuring a snowstorm of static like a radio without a channel.

"Let's get this show on the road," she said.

"Alright, Gordon," Kleiner said, "Step onto the teleport platform, please."

Gordon looked over at the open metal ribs.

"Em…Gordon? Step onto the platform, would you? Then we can get started -"

He felt nauseous.

 _"If you would be so good as to climb up and start the rotors, Gordon; then we can bring the anti-mass spectrometer to eighty percent…"_

"Gordon -?"

 _"All right, Gordon: your suit should keep you comfortable through all this…"_

 _"Gordon, we cannot predict how long the system can operate at this level or how long the readings will take. Please, work as quickly as you can."_

 _"Overhead capacitors to one zero five percent."_

 _"Uh…it's probably not a problem…probably…but I'm showing a small discrepancy in...well, no: it's well within acceptable bounds again."_

 _"Sustaining sequence."_

 _"I've just been informed that the sample is ready, Gordon…"_

Gordon keeled over: a leftover swash of vomit erupted in his mouth, slopping onto the floor.

"Gordon!"

His hands were shaking and he couldn't focus.

"Gordon!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said to everyone - Barney and Alyx were both at his side - "Just…just a…I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"You're scared out of your mind, aren't you?" Alyx said forthrightly.

Freeman took a deep breath. "Sure."

"Fair enough. I'm scared too." She looked around the room, eyes sharp, seeing everything.

"Alyx," Barney asked, "What are you thinkin'?"

"You're worried something will go wrong," Alyx suggested to Gordon. "Just like at Black Mesa."

Gordon nodded. _Close enough._

He started curling over to help ease his stomach. He was sweating profusely, yet felt waves of heat and cold fluctuating within his arms and legs and head. The barrel chamber…he couldn't get the imagery out of his head. It was all too similar: he was wearing the suit, and it was associated with his research, and Kleiner was there and…

Alyx looked up at Kleiner. "How long is the cool-off, doc?"

"Nearly zero, once it's up and calibrated and so forth. There is no reason we couldn't teleport a hundred people before it started running too hot. Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm going to get teleported before Gordon."

Kleiner and Barney gaped at her. "I beg your pardon…?" Kleiner asked, compulsively adjusting his glasses.

"Seeing someone else go through first will help him calm down."

"What?" Gordon exclaimed rather weakly.

"And besides," she continued, "I need to lay low from cities for a while. I've been getting a bit too much attention. And I want to see my Dad in person again. It's been a while -"

"We have twenty minutes!" Barney shouted. " _We don't have time_! Just load him in and do it!" Gordon nodded in agreement, trying to stand up, but a little more throw-up came out and he fell to his knees.

He remembered…over the barrel chamber's intercom: _"Oh dear!"_

 _"Gordon, get away from the -"_

 _"Shutting down…no, attempted shutdown…It's not…it's not…it's not shutting down!"_

 _Lightning arced into the control room. Shattered glass, shattered bodies…_

 _"_ He can't even stand up straight!" Alyx shouted back. "What happens if he keels over right as he's teleporting? He'll hit the edge of the field with his head; it'll rip it clean off!"

"Alyx is right," Kleiner agreed, albeit reluctantly. "We need a way to calm him down…but Alyx…I don't think…well…"

Suddenly, the large screen in the cabinet found its channel. The snowstorm rapidly reordered itself into a coherent scene: a familiar face to Gordon, Eli Vance.

"Isaac, are you there?" Eli called out through the scratchy audio. He was a grandfatherly African American man with short spongy hair turned silver and gray. He had a Van Dyke similar to Gordon, a prominent but flattish nose, and eyes that seemed perpetually squinted with profound, good-natured curiosity. He wore a button down shirt under a blue sweater vest, and a green cargo vest-jacket over that.

"Yes, yes, Eli…a bit of a hold up on this end…terribly sorry for this short notice and confusion…well, just see for yourself! Look who found his way into our lab yesterday!"

Eli leaned forwards into the screen, and then split into a brilliant smile. "Uh heh - that's not who I think it is, is it?"

"Indeed it is, and it is our intention to send him packing straight to you through the teleport as part of our test session today…erm…though we may have a bit of a problem…"

"Long time, no see, Dr. Freeman!" Eli was already saying. "Looks like you're already back to firsthand experimentation…!" Eli's voice quickly grew concerned. "What's happened? Gordon, are you alright?"

 _No, not really at all,_ Gordon thought.

"Are you ready for us, Dad?" Alyx called back.

"We're all set on this end," Eli replied. "But what about Gordon? Are you sure he ought to be doing this? He doesn't look well…?"

"Don't worry, he's going after me," Alyx replied, as she stepped onto the circular platform. "Let's do this."

"What is going on over there?" Eli said urgently. "Isaac? Barney? What's the big idea?"

"Eli, I'm so terribly sorry, but there is no time to explain…"

"Are we really doin' this?" Barney asked.

"Yes, we're really doing this, Barney," Alyx replied.

The platform where Alyx stood began to rise.

"Let's see," Kleiner muttered anxiously. "The massless field flux should self-limit and I have clamped the manifold parameters to include CY Hilbert and GC orbitfold inclusive. Conditions could hardly be more ideal."

"That's what you said the last time," Barney noted.

"Uh…" Alyx hesitated, "Yeah, about that cat?"

Kleiner actively ignored them. "Initializing primary process in three…"

"I can't look," Barney said.

"…two…"

Gordon couldn't take his eyes away.

"…one…"

The half-hoops began spinning around Alyx as if on invisible tracks: slowly, then quickly, then so fast that they looked like full hoops. _I can see why I wouldn't want to bend over in there,_ Gordon thought. Thena laser turned on from across the room, shining into a hole in a special machine hanging from the ceiling above the teleport. And around Alyx's body: sparkling lights of blue and white began to accumulate in misty globules…

Alyx's eyes widened in fear as she watched the light gathering onto her skin. She offered a joyless laugh to comfort herself...but then…

"Uh...uh…! No…! _Ohhhhhhhhnooooooo-!_ "

Flash of light. Flash of light. Flash of light - the sound of crashing waves - and she was gone.

The lights dissipated. The half-hoops slowed down.

Gordon was frozen. He felt his pulse nearly bursting in his temples.

"Well…?" Kleiner called out with a quivering voice. "Did it work…?"

Eli gave a half smile. "Huh! See for yourself!"

"Hey doc!" said Alyx through the television screen. She leaned down in front of it, deliberately cheerful, her mouth made wide by her broad smile.

"Thank goodness," Kleiner was saying, clutching at his heart. "My relief is almost palpable…"

"Fantastic work, Izzy," Eli said.

"Oh, don't thank me. It was Gordon's designs. I swear, I didn't make a single adjustment to his original theories."

"Huh," Barney said, starting to grin at Gordon, trying to be a bit more comforting. "I can see your M.I.T. education really pays for itself."

 _It worked,_ Gordon thought. _It worked for Xen but…_ this _is what I had intended…teleportation on Earth…my idea_ worked _…_

"We have fifteen minutes," Barney warned, turning serious again. "Are you gonna throw up on us again, Gordon?"

 _No_ , Gordon thought. _I don't think I will._ He felt something relieving all the tension in his chest and shoulders and head. What was it? It was gradual, but fast enough to notice. Everything was calming down. _It worked…it worked…_ Just that thought…maybe…maybe he could trust his old work. Maybe it wasn't all cursed by the universe to fail. Maybe he could calm down.

He rose to his feet, wiping a bit of leftover vomit from his mouth and chin.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Barney said.

Gordon nodded. "Sorry about the mess," he said. Barney started laughing.

The platform had already lowered again; Gordon stepped onto it. Barney grinned at him, and then, with the same twinkle in his eye that he had last evening: "Good luck out there, Gordon."

Gordon nodded, and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Indeed," Kleiner said, "best of luck in your future endeavors, Dr. Freeman. _Bon voyage_! Eh…initializing in…three…two…one-"

BANG.

"What the hell?"

"What is it?"

…fizzle…fizzle…BANG.

"It's your pet the _freakin' head humper_!"

" _Lamar_? _How did you get in_ -? Those ventilation shafts aren't connected -!"

"It's in one of the machines!"

BANG.

"Izzy? What's going on?"

"There's a severe malfunction -"

" _Look out_!"

BANG.

Flash of light. Flash of light.

Gordon was on a beach. He could not blink.

Globules of light enfolded him. The sun was hot.

Flash of light.

He was back in the lab.

"There he is!"

"Oh dear Lord -! _Lamar_ -?"

" _Forget about that thing_!"

Flash of light.

He was in another lab. Eli was there. Alyx was there. A hunchbacked alien was looming in the background…there was a tallish woman in a sweater…

"He's coming through, Dad! It's okay! It's okay…!"

"What is going _on_ Judith?"

"I'm not sure - there's some kind of interference -"

"Gordon, stay put…we will get you out of there…!"

"Something is drawing him away -!"

Flash of light.

He was in a spacious office. There were long thin windows looking out over a cityscape from as high as an airplane. Then there were advanced monitors, alien technology, black and deep blue metals, an industrial sarcophagi in the corner…

A man was sitting at the large desk, wearing a black sweater and a grey suit.

It was Wallace Breen.

He started from his desk, clearly surprised.

"What the -! What is the meaning of this -? Who _are_ you? How did you get in here?"

Flash of light.

He was back in Kleiner's lab.

"I see him! He's back!"

"What are you _doing_ , Barney?"

" _I'm going to get him out of there!_ "

" _You can't just wade into the field! It will peel you apart!"_

"We just lost Gordon again - what is going on?"

"I wish I knew…I'm encountering unexpected interference -"

"Don't worry, we'll -"

Flash of light.

Eli's lab.

"There he is!"

"No! No, no, we're losing him ag-"

Flash of light.

Breen's office: he was speaking to something…a giant grub on a computer screen…

"The man I saw!" Breen exclaimed. "I'm all but certain it was…"

He turned around and saw Gordon, floating above the ground, body devoured by writhing lights -

"…Gordon Freeman…" Breen said solemnly.

Flash of light.

Gordon was underwater.

Something was swimming towards him.

It's jaw unhinged to swallow him whole but -

\- Flash of light -

* * *

He was outside, in an empty industrial enclosure. Old towers and power cables and generators surrounded him. The ground was cement, but weeds and ivy were pouring up from the cracks.

The globules were dissipating from his skin. And with them flew all of his strength: Gordon Freeman collapsed in a quivering heap on the ground. He could not move, and could hardly breathe.

He lay there for a few minutes. He could still hear the deep groaning siren from further into the city.

"Gordon!"

Gordon moved his eyes. He could feel his strength returning, bit by bit. He willed it to go faster, until he was nearly able to push himself up from the ground.

"Gordon!" It was Barney Calhoun. Gordon saw him standing on a low rooftop to his left. "There you are! You're not dead! _How_ are you not dead?"

Gordon shrugged.

Barney looked out towards the source of the alarm. "I've never seen the citadel on full alert like that! Man…this ain't good…"

"How soon until the drones get here?" Gordon asked.

Barney ruffled his own hair in exasperation. "Five minutes -?"

"I have to get to Black Mesa East another way, then."

Barney stared at him. "…yeah, I guess so…" he admitted. He bit was biting his lip until it nearly bled. "Alright, alright: take the old canals. You head out of this enclosure, down the road a ways until you hit an old train yard. Go straight through the gate to car 76: you'll see a lambda symbol spray-painted on it. Near there should be a doorway leading into the first part of the canals. Some people run one of the safe stations down there. They can help you. And pray you don't run near to drones…I don't know if all of them have you as a priority target, though…they shouldn't know that you're Gordon Freeman yet so maybe it'll cool down in a bit…But I don't know…Listen, I'd come with you but Kleiner's been injured. Some shrapnel got in his side…I shouldn't have left him…"

Gordon was on his feet again.

"Get back to Kleiner. Tell Eli I'm coming to his lab on foot."

Barney nodded. "I will let every station on the railroad know you're coming. They'll give you all the help they can." He was about to turn away, but suddenly: "Oh, and, uh, before I forget -" he pulled something up from the ground. "I think you dropped this back at Black Mesa."

He dropped the object over the side of the small building. It clanged against the cement ground with an ugly ring.

It was a crowbar.

As Gordon picked it up, Barney asked, "How are you going to be okay doing this? You were throwing up a minute ago."

Gordon looked up at his friend. He made a grim smile.

"Someone's watching out for me," he said.

* * *

Gordon knew it was a G-man's fault: somehow, someway, he let Lamar into the teleportation lab. Somehow he manipulated the teleporter just so. Somehow, someway…Gordon had suspected something would happen, from the moment he saw the G-man on the monitor. His malicious smile seemed to say, _Don't get too attached, Dr. Freeman. You're on call._

He was jogging through an urban industrial labyrinth: through chain-link fences and ivy-grown concrete walls, all under the ugly, looming clouds, inflamed with the yellow and pink of the early morning sunshine. The area was deserted, likely because it was not residential.

He rounded a corner, and there before him was the citadel again, still in the distance, but so large it could not help but oppress the entire cityscape. The clouds circled and blanketed its higher walls, so that its peak disappeared in mist. The alarm was emitting from its direction, and Gordon could just barely discern thousands of tiny black dots flowing out of its sides like gnats.

 _Drones_ , Gordon thought.

Yet he wasn't scared. Not even frightened, at least not yet. Because he was alone now; his friends were safe and he only had himself to worry about. And now he had his suit; without the helmet, of course, but he could manage. He always managed, with or without the G-man.

 _Well, then: bring it on, Dr. Breen._

He could feel a second wind rushing up through him. Adrenaline pumping, tenacity and determination…

 _Bring it on, Combine._

He was breaking into a full-on sprint.

 _Because I'm coming for you, and I'm gonna raze your citadel to the ground._


	4. Route Kanal

_Author's Notes:_

 _Like I said, I am determined to finish this thing. It just might take me a while._

 _I greatly appreciate the comments I've already received; I'm really glad people have been enjoying this version of the story._

 _Out of all the chapters, this is probably the most different from the game. There is a a LOT of good, suspenseful material in the game, a lot of great set pieces, but insofar as I am trying to make this more of a character piece on Gordon, and SuperChocolateBear has already provided wonderful versions of those game action scenes, I've felt it was necessary to cut quite a bit of them, and do a fair amount of changes in order to tell the story that I want to tell. I hope you enjoy this finished piece, or at least find it thought-provoking!_

 _Please let me know what you honestly think in the comments! And once again, thank you all for reading!_

* * *

3

Route Kanal

It was a cold morning, and the air was starting to bite Gordon's exposed face as he moved through the train yard. It was a maze of rusted sheet metal and stained iron, paved with weed-infested gravel. The early sun was still low in the east, painting one side of the train cars in stark yellow and the other in hard shadows.

Gordon's mind was abuzz:

 _Breen knows I'm here, somewhere._

 _So he didn't know before._

 _Which means he's not in direct contact with the civil protection; he doesn't normally know who they are hunting in the city at any particular time._

 _Which means there might be miscommunication between them; they might not put together that my "specs" - whatever those are - are linked to Gordon Freeman._

 _So maybe Breen will tell them to redirect efforts to finding Gordon Freeman, not knowing they have his specs already -_ my _specs. Specs that can identify me through fifty feet of concrete…_

 _Because if they figure that out, then I do not see how I can make it through this city. I can't use the underground railroad if that's the case: I would put everyone else in danger._

 _But I have no other way out…_

He found car 76 at the furthest end of the yard. There was the lambda symbol, spray painted in ugly yellow-orange; it was overlapped by graffiti of a machine gun on the left, and on the right, the black outline of an Overwatch guard clutching a crying infant.

After a moment of searching, Gordon found a door in the brick wall just opposite the car. It was metal, with a faded sign saying "Keep Out". The lock was broken; it swung inward like a saloon door. Before him was a steep staircase descending into an unlit tunnel, dark as a throat.

After a few moments of fiddling, he found that the H.E.V. suit was equipped with a flashlight on the chest panel. He began his way down.

The staircase led him to a service tunnel made of damp brick. It quickly became a monotonous rat maze: the walls were marked by nothing more interesting than broken circuit breakers, burnt out light bulbs and occasionally, a surreptitious arrow painted in the corner of a wall, guiding the way through.

Suddenly, Gordon realized that there was a faint glow other than his own flashlight. He shut his off to check; sure enough, there was another light stirring from somewhere deep in the maze, creeping around the corners. Gordon made his way towards it; each bend in the hallways brought him another shade from shadow into light -

There was a scream, and a despairing cry, "Help me!"

Gordon halted.

"Stop! We didn't _do_ anything!"

Overwatch radios.

Gordon rounded a corner. And there was the source of the light: a single working bulb hung from the ceiling in a long corridor. At the end was a metal stairwell. And in the middle were two civilians: a man and a woman, cowering from two Civil Protection agents. Gordon arrived in time to see one of the guards crack their baton across the man's head, leaving him bleeding and unconscious on the ground. The woman was horrified, blocking her face for fear of another blow.

The agents looked at Freeman.

"You! Stay where you are!" one snarled, striding towards Gordon, baton in hand.

"Who is that?" the other guard asked.

"It's one of those idiots dressed up like the 'Free Man' -"

The guard clicked their baton and roughly jabbed it into Freeman's chest plate. The suit absorbed the shock like a taut iron cord being flicked by a six year old.

Gordon saw, in a sudden flash, Ms. Rosewater and her fiancé from accounting - they were gunned down by a startled marine.

He felt a terrible surge of neck-straining adrenaline.

 _Kill them before they can kill you._

He seized the sparking end of the baton with his free hand and yanked the guard towards himself. He reached down, stole the pistol from their holster as they violently shoved him away.

Gordon immediately swung his crowbar like a baseball bat. The two-pronged end caught on the eye socket of the guard's facemask, wrenching the whole helmet sixty degrees clockwise around their face. Something inside the helmet cracked and the guard screamed. Gordon swung again, and let the weight of the iron bar come down like an ax on the back of the guard's head, knocking them to the ground.

The second guard had drawn their pistol and was aiming.

Gordon aimed his stolen gun -

\- he felt the trigger on his forefinger -

Both of them fired at the same time.

Two bullets smacked into Gordon's suit, ricocheting off with sharp rings. The suit's inner charge absorbed the shock.

Gordon missed once, then grazed the guard's shoulder, then hit them right in the eye lens, shattering it.

They screamed. They dropped their gun. They were compulsively reaching up to their smashed eye.

Gordon fired twice more, splitting through the guard's hand and cracking their helmet. They flailed and collapsed in a seizure. Then Gordon aimed at the first guard and put three bullets through their eye sockets. Some blood flecked up onto Gordon's armored calves.

The first guard lay still now, quietly dying. The second kept twitching for another thirty seconds before settling into rigor mortis.

Gordon began to understand what he had just done.

He knew he didn't have time for these old moral dilemmas, no matter how bitterly they welled up in his mouth. But he could not stop his arm from shaking. His fingers grew lax for a moment; the muscles quaked like a tree branch in a howling wind. and he almost dropped both of his weapons.

In order to ignore it, he set to work searching the bodies for ammo clips.

"Are you…the Free Man?"

Gordon looked up at the woman. Her eyes were wide and her whole body was shaking. She was trying to help patch up the man.

Gordon, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

She spoke again: "Th-thi-this is…it w-was a st-station on the underground railr-r-r-oad-d-d…" she managed, "But…Overwatch found…they f-fo-f-found us out-t…they're hitting all the s-stations…we lost contact with them…t-they're gonna…they g-g-gonna…"

There was a horrible metallic shriek. The woman gave a yelp and jumped. Gordon jumped as well, but quickly realized it was just the guard's interior radios. A monotonous female voice called out through them: "Units 543 and 545, report status. Reinforcements needed at enemy station 03…"

Freeman went back to work. He found an extra clip and traded it into the pistol. He tossed the empty aside and moved to the other body. Another two clips in its belt. He removed the whole thing and strapped it around his chest, hooking extra ammo to it. _Like Rambo,_ he thought, with black humor.

"P-please…help…" the woman said.

Gordon looked up at her again. It was very difficult for him to concentrate on so many things at once. Trying to communicate with another human being, much less show compassion, was rather inimical to the cold-blooded murder and looting he felt he had to commit.

 _I didn't even try to talk to them…_

 _I didn't even see…_

 _Are they both men? Is one of them a woman?_

 _What's under those masks?_

 _What if one was Barney?_

 _Or a young kid?_

 _Who was that one marine I killed back at Black Mesa? I shot him in the face with his own gun. I don't even know how I did it. I think he was bleeding out anyway and I got lucky._

 _And those two men I blew up with the explosion gel and that makeshift laser tripwire. It was almost fun to make that thing. It was a puzzle I solved. And it felt so satisfying when it worked. Except that meant there would be those men's body parts…scattered all over the place…but I had to do it because if I didn't they would have killed Dr. Rosenthal…_

"Free Man…?"

He refocused and shook his head violently. "Do you know how to jam the drones?" He asked.

"Wh-what-?"

"The drones. They can see through fifty feet of concrete, can't they?"

"What -? Uh…only if they h-have specs on you…I…I'm very confused…"

"There is a possibility they have specs on me. Is there any way to negate that?"

"I…the next station of the railroad," she managed, "…go over the tracks and into the canal, and go down a mile…you'll see arrows and symbols if you look…but down there is a train car, big and red and there are people who can help you with the drones in there…"

Freeman nodded.

"I'm very…please," she continued, starting to shake all over. "I love h-him…J-J-Jeff-Jeffrey…I don't k-know if h-h-he's dead…we were gonna…"

She began sobbing over the body.

Gordon just stared for a few moments, trying to process it.

"Do you have medical supplies anywhere?" he said.

"B-back at…the station we…over the hall…yes, yes we do…but he might be…I can't…"

Gordon seized the second guard's gun, checked its clip, set the safety on, and tried to hand it to her. She was confused, so he firmly gripped her wrist and forced it into her palm. "Have you fired a gun, before?"

"N-no…I'm just a…technician…"

"I was just a scientist. Look at me now. You know my story? The Vortigaunts told you?"

She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Then here's _your_ story. You're going to carry Jeffrey, single-handed, out of this place. Find him medical supplies, patch him up along the way. What's your name?"

"Miranda…"

"Miranda, you're going to live, and so is Jeffrey, and when you see that citadel go up in fire and brimstone, then you and Jeffrey are gonna get married and bang each other like Mount Saint Helens and have seventeen children or whatever. You follow me?"

"Uh…I…I don't know about…he may not…and that's a lot of kids…"

"Nah, it'll be seventeen. Mark my words."

She wiped her face. For some reason, she was laughing as well as crying because it was just so very darned silly of a man like Gordon Freeman to say. "Thank you…thank you for saving us…" she managed, "I don't think I really believe you're here…"

"I don't know if I can either," Freeman replied.

"Ha." She smiled. "The guards…they'll be looking for you now…"

"I can handle them," Freeman responded. "Get going."

* * *

He was running up the metal staircase. Near the top, a guard emerged through another service door.

"Cody? 543? What's your status-?"

BANG, BANG.

They yelped through their mask, and rolled heavily down the steps.

BANG.

The third bullet split the helmet; they went still. Gordon took their clip and kept running. The radio broke into a shriek behind him as the Overwatch called out for its lost.

Gordon arrived on the sun-bathed surface. The morning sun was peering out from behind the iron citadel. Its light was burning up the clouds and inflaming the edges of buildings with a brilliant glow. As Gordon stepped up into the sunlight, he scattered a small flock of mourning doves that were pecking at lost newspapers and trash.

He was standing on a sort of train service platform; it was separated from the actual railroad by a barbed-wire fence. There were some gnarled, leafless trees curling up from urban soil plots to his far left. To his right there were several large, bright orange, metal barrels lying about.

Urbanity rose up all around. Buildings, buildings, buildings. Gordon retained some of the claustrophobia he had in the tunnels.

He thought: _Civil protection is raiding the underground railroad._

 _How did Barney not know? Isn't he undercover?_

 _Did they find him out? I don't know how civil protection works…_

He found a door in the fence and stepped through onto a rusted scaffold. It had a ladder down into a ten foot deep, fifteen foot wide trench. Its bottom hosted a pair of steel tracks: they extended at least a mile in either direction before turning out of sight. Across the way was another scaffold, about ten feet down to Gordon's right. It had a ladder as well, and also led beyond the fence: to a line of half demolished one-story buildings.

On the wall of the closest one was a faded lambda symbol.

Gordon scrambled down into the trench and across to the other ladder. He began climbing up -

There was a metallic snap, a clang, and the bottom half of the scaffold broke loose, clattering noisily to the ground. The sound echoed dully town the trench.

Gordon looked up at the remaining scaffolding. It was a good six feet above his head.

He ground his teeth.

He heard, somewhere in the near distance, the heavy thumping of a passing helicopter. It was joined by a deep, rolling ambulance siren from further away. Then the kettle-whistle roars of a train…the relentless chugging of its wheels…

Gordon looked to his left, down the railroad track. A train was cruising towards him at twenty miles an hour.

He hustled back up the first scaffold. As he climbed back up, he noticed two drones passing overhead, silhouetted against the rising sun. They looked like blood swollen gnats drifting in a sunbeam.

 _How do those things work? Can they see me? Do they have wide camera lenses?_

The train whistled again and Freeman compulsively stopped his ears. The lumbering machine was making a steady racket on the tracks. Gordon could barely think.

One of the drones was descending. It was going to do a closer sweep of the area.

The train was starting to pass him by.

Car after car after ugly car…

Freeman decided.

He leaped from the scaffold and landed heavily on the train's roof, then immediately leaped off again, crashing onto the other scaffold, nearly sliding off of it at a newly gained twenty miles an hour.

The scaffold shook violently but did not break. Gordon hoisted himself onto the stable concrete of the other side. After a few deep breaths, he began moving again.

He ran into the lambda-marked house. There: an arrow was carved into some wood next to a door across from him. He approached it, and found himself staring down into another trench, running parallel to the first. He couldn't tell how deep it was, because ten feet down it was filled with brackish water and slime, with floating plastic and cardboard and fly-filled tires. It did not smell, however: it was not sewage, but an abandoned canal.

 _Through the old canals…_

The train exhumed another whistling roar that filled the air like thunder.

Gordon tossed the crowbar into the drink ahead of himself, holstered the pistol on the strap near his hip, and lowered himself down the edge into the trench. With his body fully extended, he let go. He splashed into the canal like a boulder, though it was only three feet of water and two feet of mud. He found the crowbar with his foot, and managed to pass it up to his hand without getting his glasses soaked. His feet had sunk a good foot into the bottom slop, leaving him up to his chest in water.

Disconcerted but determined, he began making his way down the canal, striding against the water and sludge.

* * *

The water fluctuated in depth, but never engulfed his neck or head. Regardless, it was exhausting to move in both the suit and the water. Gordon had to pause many times, leaning against the trench walls to catch his breath. But after a mile, he was finally rewarded: the waters grew shallow and turned into a slimy trash-heap beach, where an old, rusty red train car sat enthroned as lord of the junkyard.

Gordon heaved himself across the beach and began examining the car. He found a ladder leading to its roof. On the roof, an unlocked hatch: he opened it and slipped inside.

It was a cramped safe station: a map on the wall, a dirty carpet, a desk with a television, a machine gun and a pistol and several makeshift boxes of advanced technology to boot. There were two figures tending to those boxes. One was a man with a brown-blonde goatee and short brown hair. He wore civilian scrubs underneath a stained leather jacket.

The other figure was a Vortigaunt.

Naked, hideous, sending compulsory chills up Freeman's spine. It smelled like formaldehyde.

The brown-haired man jumped, startled at Gordon's entrance, but the Vortigaunt offered no discernible reaction.

The three of them stood awkwardly for a moment. The man was grasping for something to say, Freeman was waiting for him to say it, and the Vorigaunt, as far as Freeman could tell, was contemplating the carpet's pattern.

Finally: "Guess those sirens are for you, huh?" the man said.

Freeman simply nodded in response.

"Good thing you found us," he continued. His accent had hints of German. "You're not the first to come through by a -"

"This is the Free Man," declared the Vortigaunt suddenly. "The Combine's reckoning has come."

Its voice croaked and growled like a smoker speaking through a phlegm-clogged nose. The sound came from a flap at the bottom of its marble-eyed head, but the flap did not move in time with the words: it simply waved like a cuttlefish's fins. In front of the flap, Gordon could see four translucent fangs retracting like stalactites. Gordon could also see his reflection in the alien's bloated, red eyes. He remembered how they ruptured like ripe grapes when you smashed them; the outer membrane imploded and green slime burst out.

The citizen, oddly, did not look overly surprised at the Vortigaunt's revelation. He only looked apprehensive. "Well then," he said, almost sadly. " _The_ Free Man, yes? _Gordon_ Freeman?" He stared at Gordon's H.E.V. suit, as though he wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel if it was real.

Gordon was distracted. He was looking at the television screen in the corner.

The G-man's face was on it. He was looking straight towards Freeman.

Then it flickered, and he was gone.

The rebel citizen was still talking, rather feverishly now. "Commander Calhoun sent a bulletin out to the whole railroad just a half hour ago; he said a V.I.P. was making his way through, someone critical to the resistance…but y'know, I didn't think…I always thought those stories about the Free Man were…those guys who told them were nuts, crazy…I thought _you_ were crazy Neb…"

"This one knows you thought as much," replied the Vortigaunt, gesturing vaguely towards itself.

The man laughed. It sounded strange and sad to Freeman, and it made him nervous.

"Look," continued the man, "we're just a lookout for the main station right around the corner. Head there as fast as you can and they should put you on the right foot…at least, their radio will let 'em know where to dispatch you…and y'know, just keep following the arrows…"

"The drones have my specs," Gordon said. "What can you do about that?"

The man was somewhat taken aback. "I…uh…well, crap. Neb, you got anything? He _is_ wearing metal of some kind…"

The Vortigaunt answered: "This one is able." It stepped closer to Freeman, green sparks dancing across its long fingertips -

Gordon drew his pistol. It was a miracle he did not unload half of its ammo into the Vortigaunt's front eye.

The Vortigaunt halted, but gave no other indication of surprise or fear.

The citizen, however, was terrified. "Whoa! Whoa, whoa, there! Put the gun down! Put it down now!"

Gordon's heart was pounding so fast it was painful.

He put the gun down. But he did not take his eyes off the alien.

"You asked for help, man!" the rebel citizen stressed.

Gordon watched his warped reflections in the alien's eyes.

"He's just gonna give you a jolt," the citizen explained, exasperated. "It won't even sting. Neb, you're gonna…give him one of those charge fields…?"

"No," the Vortigaunt replied. "The Free Man has one already. The suit artifices its own charge, through electric blood. But this one can make that blood to dance differently."

"That sounds like it would hurt, Neb."

"It will not."

Gordon twitched.

The Vortigaunt raised its hands again. Strange electricity appeared over its head. Then it brought the hands down and pointed its palms at Freeman. The lightning formed into static-charged balls that flowed into the hazard suit's chest plate. Gordon felt the suit grow a bit warmer around his skin, but that was all.

The Vortigaunt lowered its hands, and the electricity dissipated. "That is all these can spare. The drones shall not see you through walls, but open air remains dangerous."

"There you go," the citizen agreed. He seemed anxious for Gordon to leave. He unlocked and opened a sliding door on the side of the car, and peered out to the right and the left. "You have no idea… _no idea_ …the stories they tell about you," he said. Then he looked Gordon straight in the eye. "They'd better be true."

Freeman was irritated at that, and stared him right back, almost with menace. "I never made you a promise," he said.

The man smiled sadly. "Fair enough."

Gordon continued. "I was told that all of your stations were under attack."

The citizen hesitated. "False alarm," he said quickly. "Got cleared up ten minutes ago. Only a couple of stations were hit -"

"We serve the same mystery," the Vortigaunt interjected.

"Neb, I _told_ you not to interrupt me."

"It does not matter any longer."

Gordon stared at them both.

 _It wasn't a false alarm. They both know the railroad is being raided. They're letting themselves get captured to give me more time to escape. They're going to try to occupy as many soldiers as possible…_

"Hit the road, Jack!" the man barked. It was unexpectedly commanding.

 _He knows I know._

What had the French man said before? Back in the apartment building?

 _Nous avons déjà choisi, ami._ That was French. It had to be French… _We've already chosen, friend._

Gordon hopped from the train car and continued on his way, angry and bitter.

* * *

Gordon wondered why there was so much trash in the canal. It wasn't ordinary trash: it was industrial grade, as though entire buildings had been slain like dragons, and their innards shoveled into the city's wet cracks. It was sharp and therefore dangerous, especially because everything was made slippery from the slimy waters that were still trying to trickle through the canal. Water got caught in secret pools, or trapped in spongey mattresses and mud that sucked at his boots. Fortunately, there were paths carved through the junk. Sometimes there were even tunnels of copper wire and broken concrete. If he looked hard enough, he would find the graffiti arrows and the lambda symbol, showing the way.

The sun was more-or-less in the height of the sky now. It would have been hot if the air and the gross waters of the canal were not so cold. He looked up, and saw the sky was mostly free of clouds. Apartment buildings, brown and beige and brick-red, rose up like gigantic dominos on either side of the canal. As he looked, he wondered when the man and the Vortigaunt would be captured or killed. He thought he heard gunshots at one point, but he couldn't tell precisely where they came from. He could also hear the Overwatch woman's voice, calling out from megaphones from somewhere behind the buildings. Now and then he heard something like an ambulance, and the faint thumping of a helicopter.

Occasionally, he would startle a crow, and it would flap away with a few hoarse croaks. Beneath his boots, he realized there were denizens living in the mud pools: mostly frail minnows and pepper-black tadpoles. There were small swarms of flies and gnats, but they never landed on Freeman, but seemed to take pains to move away from him, not unlike the crows. The only thing as large as the crows were sluggish mudpuppies that clung to the underside of metal beams, gazing at Freeman with lazy eyes.

As he passed underneath a low concrete bridge, he startled a crow. It leapt up to fly, but ran immediately into something. The thing was long, thin and pale. It hung from the ceiling. It was the gray-green color of a decomposing tongue. When the crow hit it, an adhesive took grip, tearing the crow's feathers as it tried to escape. The remaining length of the tendril reached up like a flailing worm to embrace the crow and hold it tighter. Then the whole rope was jerked up by degrees, a foot at a time.

Freeman looked up: there, on the underbelly of the bridge, was a familiar monster. The rope was its tongue. It was one of the predatory stalactites he met in Black Mesa. It looked like something turned inside out, its tendons, laced in fat, bulging and throbbing. Its base was plastered to the concrete by a spray of dried adhesive, but its main body hung down like a tubular fungus. The tongue was being gulped back into its gaping, four-fanged maw, the sinister face of a hookworm.

The mouth enveloped the crow and then closed.

Gordon moved on, shuddering.

He made it another hundred feet before -

Overwatch radios.

Freeman halted and ducked down underneath a slab of concrete. He peered out from its edge, to see if any Civil Protection were on the walls above the canal, looking in. But that wasn't where the noise was coming from. It was further ahead, around the corner where the next station should be. Gordon approached, always keeping himself hidden behind debris.

Finally, he could see around the corner. In fact, it was two corners: that is, a sunny corridor in the canal that extended to both the left and right, forming a top line of a "T" intersection. The corridor was filled with a foot of grubby water, and the far wall was lined with five-foot-high scaffolding. He could hear the Overwatch radios from further right, but could not catch glimpse of them from his current viewpoint.

There was the sound of splashing footsteps.

Gordon turned to his own right and saw, half blocked by a trash pile, a giant, iron-grated drainage pipe. The footsteps emanated from it. Gordon armed himself -

A civilian appeared in view, hurdling out of the shadows. He slammed up against the grating, and without so much as a nod to Gordon, began feverishly unscrewing one of the bars.

 _A fake bar,_ Gordon thought. _That drainage pipe is a secret passage. It leads into the safe station -_

There was a gunshot and the man's forehead burst open.

Blood flew everywhere - Overwatch radios echoing down the pipe -

Gordon was frozen for a moment.

 _\- what it looks like inside the helmets when I shoot them. That's what I do to them, isn't it? The body is just a sack of tissues, isn't it? Look, there's the bone. I can see the -_

The dead man slumped to the watery floor: his face dragged against the false bar.

Gordon thrust his pistol between the pipe's grates and unloaded the entire clip into the darkness: seventeen bullets in all.

There were shouts and swears and a scream and the piercing cry of a radio.

Gordon finished unscrewing the bar and slipped inside the passage. He turned on the flashlight. Two civil protection agents were sprawled and bleeding halfway down the pipe. A third disappeared around a corner at the very end.

As Gordon collected their ammo and added it to his Rambo belt, he noticed they were still alive. His instinct was to finish them off, but he stopped himself. There was an inner conflict: security or conscience. If he let them live, they might get up and attack from behind. But if he killed them -

\- in the end, he did nothing. And he could not come up with a rational reason for it. He simply threw their guns away and moved in on the last guard.

As he approached, the guard rounded the corner and began firing. Three shots rang against Gordon's armor. He could feel the H.E.V. deflection charge beginning to strain.

Gordon raised his plated arms up to protect his face and barreled down the pipe.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG -

\- all deflected, but each shot hit him harder -

\- the crowbar was in Gordon's left hand and -

He swung it as hard as he could. The guard jumped back just in time, stumbling and falling on their back. The crowbar smacked against the wall of the pipe with a horrible metallic clang. Then he swung again and smacked the guard in the shoulder. Something gave way under their uniform, and they screamed. Gordon hated the sound. Then their inner radio began shrieking and it nearly made Gordon dizzy. He hit the guard again and they fell silent.

Gordon realized that around the pipe's corner, it emptied out into a room. It was a long rectangular box, furnished with dim lightbulbs, damp couches, and a scruffy table with a homemade radio. Gordon could hear, "Station twelve: come in. Station twelve?" But nobody answered: three rebel citizens were strewn dead on the floor. There were bullet casings everywhere. All three bodies held pistols, still warm in their hands.

Gordon approached the radio. Within a few moments, he accessed the channel that was calling.

"This is Gordon Freeman," he said.

There was silence for a full minute.

"Station twelve was raided," Gordon continued. "I came late. Four are confirmed dead. I knocked out three civil protection in the area."

More silence. But finally, "Who _is_ this?"

"I told you: Gordon Freeman."

" _The_ Gordon Freeman -?" Another voice interrupted over the radio. "You're the V.I.P. Calhoun was shouting about, yeah?"

"I assume so."

There was some deliberation on the other end of the call. Gordon thought he heard his name a few more times. Then, "You're inside the station twelve bunker, yeah?"

"I am."

"Alright: you need to get to the docks, alright? That's where we are. We got a motor boat here; it'll cut your journey to Black Mesa East _in half_. Now, you wanna get on the roof and scurry on over the scaffolding on the right. That'll take you to a large pipe. You go down into a filthy sewage box, then take the pipe on the right, follow that to a big fat tunnel until you're in the sunshine again. Then you follow the canal to the right - _I know, Jeff, I know, 14 and 15 were evacuated, that's why I'm taking him through the yards…what do you mean…? That soon?_ \- Alright, scratch that, you wanna go _left_ until you see a service door with a big red lambda drawn all the way around it. Down in the sewers you'll find a small safe station with a radio, we'll guide you from there."

"And what if they get killed before I get there?" Gordon asked. His voice was a little hoarse.

There was a pause. Then, "They won't get killed. Don't worry."

"What if _you_ get killed?"

"Don't worry, we're secure here -"

"You're an idiot," Gordon snapped.

Silence.

"…What?"

Gordon was suddenly shaking with rage. "If you don't evacuate your station, you will die," he said.

"What -? We need to be here when you -"

" _Get out of there,_ " Gordon repeated. "Get out of there, or so help me I will kill you myself when I get there. You don't even know me. Why are you doing this for me? You all think I'm some martyr? You think you'll get to heaven if you risk your lives for me? The Free Man? I am sick to hell with people dying for the _guy who got them into this in the first place._ Get out of there!"

There was silence on the other end. Gordon was breathing heavily. Beads of sweat began to trickle down his nose. Every muscle in his body was tensed to keep him restrained. He felt like he felt when he hugged Kleiner: like he was collapsing, a collapsing star. He wondered vaguely if he would become a black hole.

He abruptly turned the radio off. Then he shot it three times. It didn't make him feel any better.

He looked around at the bloody human bodies.

 _Why?_

* * *

There was a ladder up to the roof of the safe station. Gordon tossed an empty pistol up before him. He heard a muffled cry - "grenade?!" - and the scuffle of boots. Gordon swung up the ladder, peered out over the roof, and caught fourth and fifth civil protection guards scrambling away. Gordon shot one through the leg and they fell off the roof into the slime below. The other ducked behind some trash and out of sight.

The roof was a concrete slab. It was ten feet over the canal, and ten feet below the city streets. He saw that the scaffolding ran from the right side of the roof, down the canal, over a massive pile of trash and sludge, and underneath a city bridge, before it disappeared from view.

There was a strange sound in the near distance: a squealing, robotic alarm. Gordon looked up to see what it was.

There was a drone.

It was twenty feet away, hovering in the air, its large cycloptic eye staring at him while it sent out the alarm.

Gordon shot it five times: it began smoking and spin tailed gradually into the canal. By the time its sparking wires touched water, Gordon was halfway down the scaffolding, nearing the bridge underside.

There were gunshots behind him. The fifth guard had reappeared from behind the trash, and was trying to hit Gordon.

\- Gordon was under the bridge -

\- The soldier's footfalls rattled the scaffolding behind him -

\- A shot rang against Gordon's armored back; it felt like an eighty-mile fast-pitch -

\- Gordon leaped from the end of the scaffolding into a drainage pipe, and began sliding down -

Gordon crashed into a foot of septic soup.

He was in a ten by seven foot tank. A pile of sludge dominated one corner. The only light came from another pipe to Gordon's right: sunlight glowed faintly from it, accompanied by a cold breeze.

Gordon's glasses were spattered with brown and green, and he had dropped everything else: the crowbar, the gun…where were they? He felt around in the dark…there, to his right. He grasped the crowbar tightly in his gloved hand. But the pistol…where did he drop _it_?

The soldier slid down the pipe and smashed into the water just behind Gordon.

Gordon sprang to his feet, hardly able to see through his glasses, and only armed with the crowbar. He tried to swing while the soldier was down, but they rolled out of the way and raised their gun at Gordon's face -

BANG.

Gordon was deafened by the noise, and its thousand-fold echo. The guard had aimed too fast: their arm was at an awkward angle, and the bullet merely brushed Gordon's shoulder armor and shot into the hill of sludge behind him.

Gordon smacked the gun from the guard's hand, and it splashed in the drink. Gordon tried to swing the crowbar again, but his perception was all wrong and the guard was already lunging forwards at Gordon's knees - Gordon toppled forwards -

\- now the guard was on top of him - they grasped at Gordon's scalp and were forcing his face under the water - Gordon inhaled some of it and choked -

He kicked and struggled - he was trying to smack the guard with the crowbar, but he couldn't reach his hand backwards. He couldn't breathe -

Gordon buckled with all his strength - he got a breath of air. The guard was knocked off balance. They tried to reassert themselves but Gordon had managed to turn onto his back. The guard shoved their hands into Gordon's face to strangle him, but Gordon bit down on their fingers; as the guard howled Gordon smacked them with the crowbar. Once, twice, three times -

Gordon was on his feet again - the guard was in the defensive. Gordon was wailing on them.

\- seven, eight, nine -

The crowbar was heavy.

The guard was limp in the water. Their helmet was cracked and blood oozed from it.

Gordon fell to his knees and sneezed flecks of mud and blood.

Somewhere, he heard the beating of iron wings.

* * *

He removed his hazard suit gloves. He used his bare fingers, still dry from in the suit, to clean his glasses as best he could.

He steadied the guard's body against the tank wall. He fumbled with their mask. With some tinkering it began to loosen.

 _What am I doing to them?_ Gordon thought. _I cannot do anything violent if I do not know the_ effects _. It wouldn't be right. It isn't right._

Soon he had the helmet off.

He yelped and reeled back. The helmet splashed into the water.

The guard was not human. Not anymore.

They were pale as worms. Their skin was dripping wet with moisture. The eyes were glazed over with a milky mist. The ears were replaced with cauliflower scars. The nose was flattened against their face, and their cheekbones were sunken. They had no hair: just twenty dozen blue veins bulging underneath the scalp. Where Freeman had bludgeoned them, the skin was lacerated, and red blood dripped down their face. The lips were chapped, and the mouth was curved in a hauntingly contented expression.

They were not breathing. The gashes were severe. Gordon felt nauseous again as his mind worked overtime. He slumped down deeper into the sludge to catch his breath. He did not have long: the area would be swarming with Civil Protection soon, thanks to the drone.

He searched for the pistols. After a minute, he found one. He replaced the ammo, but didn't test it: he didn't want to go deaf in the tank. Instead, he clamored up into the second pipe and continued on towards the sunny world again. The sunlight was harsh and blaring, but the breeze was chill and refreshing. Gordon set off at a tiring jog.

The thunder of a chopper continued in the background. _It must be close_ , Gordon thought, slowing his pace as he neared the tunnel's wide exit. He saw it lead back into the canal, but instead of water there was damp earth, and instead of trash there were struggling weeds and withered wildflowers.

Thunder of wings… _that's loud…too loud…where is it? Can it see me -?_

The helicopter appeared.

Not twenty yards from where Freeman stood. The metal beast was longish, and made of sharp grey steel, its choppers racing round and round like an industrial sawblade: they were deep and loud, like cannonballs hitting sand. Freeman could barely stand it. The chopper dropped downwards like a dragonfly, catching itself just above the canal trench, and then carefully lowered itself further between the walls, until the whole drainage tunnel was naked under its floodlights…Freeman was caught in the open.

The beast seemed to regard Freeman with its two tinted windows, like a bug's compound eyes.

Freeman saw two black prods sticking out of its underbelly.

 _It has guns,_ he thought.

He ran as fast as he could. He couldn't turn back: he was a sitting duck in the tunnel. So he ran underneath the behemoth and towards the intersection.

To the right was a dead end: to the left a junk pile. He ran left.

He heard something like an electric shiver: the chopper was doing something -

Freeman slid down a decline slathered with muck, gaining speed like a rollerblader - he leapt forwards and crashed into the mud near a heap of metal beams and plywood.

 _wumwumwumwum_ \- the guns were charging -

He kicked at a rotten board and the structure collapsed halfway around him, shielding him with a wall of sheet metal, as -

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG BANG BANG

Machine guns rained lead on his new shelter. Hundreds of bullet indents appeared in the steel walls, nearly crumpling it like paper. Gordon scrambled out of the back of the pile and kept running.

There, underneath another highway bridge: a staircase and a service door with a red lambda symbol…

Electric shiver - _wumwumwumwum_

Gordon ducked behind another pile -

BANG BANG BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG -

Bullets shredded the junk metal. A few penetrated all the way through and nearly hit him, spattering earth and roots into his face.

Run.

He was on the staircase. He was running for the door -

\- Electric shiver -

He swung it open -

\- BANG BANG BANG BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG -

He was through the door. He was rolling down a wet spiral staircase. Bullets chipped the stone walls and knocked the door from its weak hinges. But they could not penetrate far enough to hurt Freeman.

He picked himself up. He began running through another labyrinth of corridors. He followed the lambda symbols. He wondered deliriously if it was just a strange cycle: if he would run across Civil Protection beating on a couple, and he would save them, and then jump the train, and then - and then -

* * *

He had to stop for several minutes, heaving breaths. The armor was feeling heavy. He slumped against a wet stone wall, beneath a dim lightbulb, and slowly sunk to his knees, then onto his side.

 _The world looks strange from here,_ he mused vaguely.

He tried to get a song stuck in his head. Something from the past, to calm himself down. A little respite. Just a few moments. One of his old favorites, his _few_ favorites:

 _There lived a certain man in Russia long ago,_

 _He was big and strong; in his eyes a flaming glow._

 _Most people looked at him with terror and fear,_

 _But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear._

Gordon remembered how his fellows at Black Mesa reacted when they realized that was what he was playing in his headphones while he worked.

"Figured a guy like you would be listening to Mozart or something," Barney joked.

"Who needs Mozart when you've got Boney M?" Freeman quipped. "Disco's the new brain food."

In fact, he detested most disco: it was just the top hits that he liked. They were catchy, they were carefree, they had a familiar melody, and perhaps most important, they were simple but assertive, meaning he could get into their rhythm and beat. He would listen to _I Will Survive_ a hundred thousand times in a row while he worked out quantum equations. Sometimes his colleagues would catch him bobbing his head a little to the beat. They thought it was hilarious, probably because Freeman gave them so little teasing-material to work with.

Gordon returned to his feet. He felt a little better - _almost at home,_ he thought dryly.

He tried a different song.

 _They left a trail of crime across the U.S.A.,_

 _And when one boy was killed, she really made them pay._

 _She had no heart at all, no, no, no heart at all…_

Freeman turned a corner, and then halted. The way was blocked. There was a hastily constructed wall of plywood and sheet metal, put up in the corridor, to block off a room beyond. Light shone through the cracks. Gordon, after a moment's examination, set to work dismantling it. With the crowbar he splintered and pried apart the wood slabs that held things together, until there was enough of a space for him to squeeze through.

On the other side were dead bodies.

Gordon shut his eyes and took a deep breath. _Yeah, just like home_ , he thought. _Ha ha._

Four rebels total: he couldn't tell who was manning this safe station and who was passing through. There was a white couple, middle-aged, an elderly Hispanic woman, and a young black man, no older than twenty-five. Gordon couldn't make out their faces very well, because they were all mutilated beyond recognition by deep cuts and lacerations. The blood was still fresh.

"I told you so," Gordon said out loud.

The room was tall, with scaffolding providing access to a second level where there were mattresses and boxes of belongings. At least, that's what Freeman surmised was the case before everything in the room had been dismantled and turned into the blockades. The most intact thing in the room was the radio, lying in the corner, but its side was cut open as if by a sawblade. Gordon still tried turning it on, but in vain. He bit his lip and shut his eyes to think.

 _I've got to get to the docks myself, now…and avoid whatever killed these people._

 _They knew this threat was coming. They blocked off the entrances with whatever they could grab._

 _They've been manhandled, that's clear. But by what? There are only those little holes in the barricade._

 _So something smaller than a half-foot across got in, but something strong enough to kill all of them._

 _Something that kills by lacerating the face._

 _Wish I had a helmet._

He glanced around the room again. Then, gingerly, he began to search the dead bodies for supplies, clues, anything.

He noticed that the black youth had his hand in his pocket. _An odd way to die_ , Gordon thought. He drew it carefully out and found the boy's fist tightly clenched. After a few moments of forcing the stiff fingers open, Freeman discovered blood stains smeared across the palm to form:

L L R S

Freeman thought, _Left, Left, Right, Straight_.

He checked the other bodies, but found no similar clues or messages.

He sighed deeply as he gazed at the dead youth. "Quit dying for me," he said. "I mean it. It isn't right."

Gordonripped apart the other barricade and moved carefully down the hallway. He listened, he watched, he smelled - _everything_ he possibly could. His throat was tight, his palms sweaty, but his eyes were cold as ever. They cut through everything they gazed upon. Nothing would escape them.

He thought he heard a faint buzzing, but it disappeared before his ears could get a bead on it.

Water occasionally dripped from the damp ceiling.

 _Ma Baker - she taught her four sons - Ma Baker - to handle their guns…_

The lights were few and far between, but Gordon did not want to turn on his flashlight. As long as he could see a light somewhere down the hallway, he was comfortable.

He noticed a red blip in the distance, in the darkness. Gordon halted.

It blinked on, off, on, off, and didn't come on again.

…beep…beep…

Gordon waited until the sound faded away.

It came from the red light. If Gordon had breathed any louder, he wouldn't have heard it.

Carefully, carefully, he began moving again.

A minute later, he spied the first intersection in the corridors, several hundred feet ahead, underneath a dim light.

Carefully, carefully…

He was twenty feet away from it now. He stopped, still wrapped in shadow.

He took one bullet from his stash, and placed it between his thumb and forefinger. He then flicked it out across the lit intersection. It made a jingling ruckus as it rang against the stone floor, down the straight path.

…beep…beep…

Something appeared from the right corridor of the intersection. It was floating midway between ceiling and floor, not unlike the drones outside; but this was a much smaller machine: a metal gnat, with a carapace on its back, and two dark prongs sticking out from underneath it like legs. It had two red, glowing eyes, one on top of the other, and was continually emitting the beeping noise like a steady heart monitor.

It investigated the noise, staring at the little bullet on the ground.

Gordon threw another bullet over the gnat and further down the hallway. It worked: the gnat floated after it. Gordon quietly moved around the left corner.

The coast was clear for now: there seemed to only be the one robot. But as he neared the next left, he noticed, behind him, the droid hovering in the intersection light, seeming to look all around before continuing on its journey down the corridor after Gordon.

Gordon was in shadow and silent, but the droid was drawing ever closer.

Gordon peered around the new left corner. There was another droid slowly patrolling the hallway.

Gordon turned towards the first droid, and tossed another bullet.

It didn't even turn. It kept moving, straight for Gordon…

 _It got wise,_ he thought, as his hand went for his crowbar. _Fine._

CRACK - he rapped the crowbar as hard as he could against the droid - SMACK - the drone smashed against the stone floor, sparking and fizzling as it rebounded into the air and tried to regain balance -

\- CRACK CRACK - it was done.

But behind him, out of reach, the second drone had arrived.

Click -

It's carapace flicked open like beetle wings, revealing a small central axle with two six-inch long razor wires attached to it. The wires drooped down for a moment, limp, but in another moment they were being spun by the axis, and in another moment they blurred into a sleek, humming disk, thin as paper -

CRACK -

At the same moment, Gordon and the sawblade machine had lunged for each other: he was not sure what happened, but he heard the crack and the drone went ricocheting off the left wall, retreating back into the hallway. Gordon felt something warm dripping from his ear and ignored it, approaching for another swing. The droid reared up into the air, tried to evade, got terribly close to Gordon's other ear before - CRACK - SMASH - sparks and a little warning chirp as the machine started smoking from inside.

Gordon heard four clicks behind him. Five feet away, blocking the hallway he came from, were four more droids, four more spinning disks.

Gordon ran.

 _Right, right, right, right…_

He turned at the first right.

The buzzing of hornets was behind him -

A heavy door -

\- he rammed it open and rammed it shut -

He turned.

In the new room, there was a family of long tongues hanging from the ceiling. They served gaping maws, plastered onto the metal above him: monster stalactites, at least twenty of them, infesting the ceiling, some grown together, all dripping globules of hormonal slime. The room smelled like rotten meat and eggs. There were half digested animal bones scattered across the floor like dead leaves.

There was the sound of a straining buzzsaw from behind the door. To Freeman's horror, he watched few sparks of white fireworks sparkle and pop from sections of the door - the wire blades were gnawing through it.

 _Quite the predicament,_ Gordon thought.

He took the remainder of his ammo, reduced it all to single bullets, and began tossing them among the fleshy ropes like he was feeding the pigeons. The tongues reacted with excitement, wrapping up and around the irritants like chameleon tongues. Gradually, a little path began to appear for him, as the tongues curled up and out of his way to further examine the possible food.

As the first of the tongues finally realized the con, and gradually went slack again, the little droids had together sawn a square hole through the door and were entering one by one. But Gordon was already across the room and out of immediate danger. He watched, not without a grim satisfaction, as the little devices halted before the tongues, seemingly perplexed.

One tried to slip between them. The disk cut through one of the tongues like it were a rotten noodle, but from the laceration spewed a web of sickly yellow pus, at first viscous, but it quickly dried into a mozzarella glue that gunked up the machine. The blades were powerful and sharp - they continued to cut, but the cuts only made more liquid spew, and within two more tongues the droid was all but defeated, its rotors sputtering as it hung like a fly in a web of alien guts.

The associated tongues began retracting, each trying to drag the machine more in its own direction.

The other three machines continued to hover, watching the whole ordeal. One accidentally drifted too close to a tongue, and was snagged in an explosion of goo that, within half a minute caused its blades to spin at half the speed.

Gordon grinned. _Knew it_.

Behind him was a spiral stone staircase, leading up. He began mounting it, more-or-less in a state of relief. He approached a heavy iron door at the top, and with great care, pried it open -

 _wumwumwum -_

He jerked back -

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG -

He fell backwards down the steps, nearly cracking his head, as the rounds blasted open the door and ripped the opposing stone wall to shreds. The old stone caught the bullets, preventing ricochet, but the air was filled with a cloud of irritant dust.

He had caught one brief glimpse of the outside: he was emerging perpendicular to a section of canal with shallow, grubby water. He could go left or right: straight he didn't catch clear sight of, because a helicopter, hovering low, had blocked the way.

He almost threw up - it was a strange sensation, as his mind was oddly calm and calculating, but his body was shaking from the stress, and the realization that he was trapped: drones and monsters behind him, and machine guns forward. And he knew it would not be long before soldiers came tramping in after him.

He retraced his steps. There was no indication of an alternate exit anywhere between the tongues and the outside. There was, however, a single barrel in the corner, with a warning label on it. The same he had seen only hours before at the train station: a hazardous materials container.

He absently noticed that the several mutilated tongues were trying, ineffectually, to divide and devour their mechanical spoils, which struggled pathetically in their grip.

 _How is there that much goo in that much space?_ he wondered, looking at it. _It didn't just spray, it expanded significantly…that's not how those monsters were in Black Mesa. It didn't expand, it just sprayed…what's different…?_

An idea.

He shot a tongue nearby him. It recoiled, and an explosion of goo spattered around the room and drooled from the wound.

 _That's an absurd amount,_ he thought, examining it. _These things are mostly muscle; there's not enough room for this much goop in that much space…it's expanding somehow…but why?_

He leaned in close and breathed out. The goo instantly began to expand by several inches, almost touching Gordon's nose before he pulled away.

 _Warmth? Heat? Carbon Dioxide?_

He spat on the goo.

He reeled back from the chemical reaction. The goo exploded, stretching so fast and so far it became a thick acid-yellow fog that filled most of the room and made it difficult to see. Gordon's eyes watered from it. He blinked a tear onto another bit of goo. It expanded even more and he began coughing, and laughing his voice out in delight.

 _Moisture,_ he thought. _Black Mesa was in a desert. This is a sewer. And if my body water can do that, then…_

* * *

" _We've got him trapped in that sewer passage."_

 _"Man-hacks found him out down there; they kept us informed on where he was going. He managed to slip past a patch of - what did you call them again? Barnacles? - Just more homicidal alien freaks, who knows what species grow down there - no! I don't know! But listen, by then we'd got the chopper just outside the door. He's not going anywhere, don't worry!"_

 _"Do not get cocky. This guy is dangerous. Captain Mau followed him into a sewage box, and Mau didn't come out."_

 _"What, he killed Mau?"_

 _"Hey Jack, I just got word: ground troops found Mau's brains bashed in there."_

 _"Like I said, Vicki."_

 _"You lost me at the part where he killed Captain Mau."_

 _"That's what I said."_

 _"But…_ CaptainMau _was enhanced! He agreed to stage one changes! Mau was a_ monster _-"_

 _"And so is this guy. Do not underestimate him."_

 _"Roger that. We're moving in."_

 _"Hold up. Man-hacks say he's moving back up towards us. Pull back, we might have a chopper shot."_

 _"Are you sure -?"_

 _"I said pull back!"_

 _"What's going on - the door is opening -"_

 _"He moves fast -! C'mon, charge the guns - I want him shredded before he can fire a single bullet."_

 _"Wait, he hasn't come out yet - I think he retreated out of sight, but the door's open."_

 _"What -? What is that?"_

 _"He threw something -"_

 _"It's filled with something yellow -"_

BOOM.

The entire width of canal was engulfed in thick yellow gas. A pressure wave nearly knocked the helicopter out of the sky. Panic reigned over the Overwatch radios.

 _"What happened?"_

 _"Was that a smoke bomb? It's huge!"_

 _"Where is he?"_

 _"Hold your fire! You might hit a comrade!"_

 _"Where was he going? Check all doors -!"_

 _"Where_ are _the doors?"_

 _"Where would he run? Where is he going? I can't see a thing!"_

BANG, BANG, BANG -

 _"I said hold your fire, maggot!"_

 _"That wasn't me -"_

 _"Where's Frederick? Frederick, do you copy?"_

 _"…"_

 _"Who_ is _this guy?"_

 _"I got word -"_

 _"What?"_

 _"It's Gordon Freeman. It's actually him -!"_


	5. Water Hazard

4

Water Hazard

"Eh…you are Gordon Freeman," said the sentry.

In response, Gordon thrust a hollowed bullet casing at them.

"Um…vhat is zis…?" asked the sentry.

They were twenty-five feet inside the mouth of a giant drainage pipe; standing on a plywood dock raised a foot above a stagnant brook of algae that made the hazard suit's internal Geiger counter crackle. The sentry was the pipe's front guard; he sat in a folding chair with a shotgun and a walkie-talkie, by which he had signaled his boss to "Come here fast". He spoke with a thick German accent.

"Vhat is sis?" the sentry repeated, eyeing the bullet casing uncertainly.

Gordon answered: "This is an emptied bullet; it has stalactite-monster guts in it. It's a very powerful smoke bomb when it gets wet. Have you guys heard of it?"

The sentry looked confused. "Eh…'stalactite'?"

"I'll just tell your boss."

"Vwe…eh…heard zhere vas…an explosion, ja? Yellow smoke, ja? Zhat vas you?" The man looked at Gordon amazedly. "How did you…?"

"Doctor Freeman!" said a new voice, from down the tunnel. Running over to them were two men; the speaker was in front. He had a rodent quality to him, was only five feet tall, sharp-faced, dark haired, sweaty and wearing what looked like a military uniform. The other man was built like a bear: nearly six feet, barrel-chested and with a thick beard. A submachine gun was slung on his back.

"You're Doctor Freeman, aren't you?" the rodent-man repeated as he got close. He had something of a Brooklyn accent. It was the same voice Freeman had heard over the radio in the bunker, the same voice he had lost his temper with.

Freeman immediately said, somewhat softly, "Did you evacuate?"

"What's that?"

"Did you evacuate, like I told you?"

"Yeah," he said, looking over at his bodyguard, "all but the most essential personnel. About ten people are left -"

"It's not an evacuation if people are left," Gordon replied.

"Listen, _doctor_ ," the man snapped. "I run this camp. Not you. I really don't know about you; just that you were at ground zero of this mess and got the Vortigaunts on our side; that you've got a dozen purple hearts and a medal of bravery. And I'm so sorry that you don't like being a messiah; take it up with the Vortigaunts you're so chummy with, eh? Not me. 'Cause I assure you, you're no messiah to _me_ , got it?"

Gordon replied so quickly it was almost insulting. "Best news I've heard all day." And before the little officer could react, Gordon thrust the bullet casing at him. "And here," he said. "Smoke bomb made of stalactite guts."

The man blinked, his mind struggling to switch gears so quickly. "Uh…what?"

"Those stalactite monsters, they cling to the ceiling and grab you with their tongues."

"Sure, yeah…"

"Their guts explode when they touch water."

"Yeah…wait, what? They do?"

"Maybe it's just a very specific species. Or a mutant. I don't know. Just take this bullet to your labs, and _do not_ drop it -"

The bearded man leaned down and whispered in the rodent-man's ear. The latter seized the bullet and began leading Gordon down the pipe. "Yeah, great, great, scientific discovery doctor -"

"Darn straight," Gordon agreed, dryly.

"- but we've got to get you on the road, _now,_ " he continued. "There's a recon team heading upriver from Black Mesa East to pick you up, and we've got a watercraft that'll help you reach them quicker. The recon team leader is on a radio in my office; she wants to talk with you -"

Gordon's heart skipped.

" - she's a legend, it was an honor just to hear her, honestly -"

 _Alyx._

* * *

They were coming to the end of the tunnel. Sunlight blared from the exit; it was already beginning to set. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that the pipe opened up to a grubby camp, set up as a system of docks over the oozing sludge. Everything was made of trash and set up haphazardly, as if to camouflage it.

 _Something's in that sludge that helps hide them,_ Gordon thought. _If the Vortigaunt's energy is third degree plasmic, like what Dr. Rosenthal had been working on, then the algae in that sludge would be either Benzaminite rich, or just plankton eating pure Xen Silicone, which would hide it from most -_

BAM.

As they reached the tunnel's edge, something cratered into the camp, only twenty feet away from them. Plywood and trash and two personnel were thrown in different directions by the pod's force - the toxic sludge spewed everywhere and Gordon heard screaming - It was a large, dark grey pod, shaped like a squid but smoking like a rocket - three flaps opened on its posterior, and from inside came -

" _Headcrabs!_ "

Gordon's handgun was out and firing. Five beasts, frog-ticks like "Lamar", had already scuttled over each other like cockroaches and were leaping onto the docks. He grazed one and pinged another, but it wasn't good enough, they were too small and fast, he needed a faster gun and he needed it _now_ -

"Get Gordon to my office!" the rodent man shouted, "The Combine's shelling headcrabs in their own city -!" Accordingly, the bearded man grabbed Gordon by the shoulder and tried to shove him along -

Gordon shot him through the leg.

The bear-man screamed. Gordon kicked him against the pipe's wall and seized the submachine gun from his back. _Needed it five seconds ago,_ he thought.

The rodent-man was horrified. "What the -!?"

Gordon ran into the open, aimed at the escaping hive of headcrabs, fifteen of them now, and opened fire - BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG - It sounded like a heaving train. Smoke flumed like milk in coffee, and thirty casings hit the ground like quarters from a slot machine. Gordon watched the headcrabs shred to cartilage. Only one or two got away.

Then Gordon saw another two pods careening down from the sky.

He ran back, seized the rodent-man's shaking hands, and took back the bullet casing. He returned in time to see the pods crash down into the middle of the camp, pluming smoke and slime. He spat into the casing, and as the yellow gas began frothing, he flung it as hard as he could into the camp. Yellow, acidic smoke billowed out like a nuclear bomb blast, filling the entire area with a spicy fog.

 _\- It's acidic, I can taste it,_ Gordon thought, _I used those lab acids to blind the "headcrabs" before; it should work again. And our guys should know their way around this place well enough to get away -_

Meanwhile, the rodent-man was trying to help the bear-man's wound. "Have you lost your mind?!" he screamed at Gordon, who stared back at him blankly. After a moment, he stepped closer to the two rebels, towering over them. His glasses flashed from the sunlight behind him, and his eyes grew cold and piercing as Orion's belt. He spoke, and his hoarse voice was quaking with anger.

" _You…should…have…evacuated._ "

There were screams from in the camp. Men and women, cries of anguish. And the little officer, stalwart, brave, honorable, a sufferer of tragedy, and justly skeptical when he first heard the folktales of the Free Man, how a PhD in physics could take on both human and alien marines singlehanded - that officer sensed something momentous and even terrifying in Freeman that commanded his respect and attention.

* * *

Gordon left the two men in their contemplative stupor and ventured into the camp.

 _These people had better know how to get out of here,_ Gordon thought, as he rushed through the maze of bridges and platforms, coughing hard, and squinting his eyes. _Please, please know how…please, don't let me see the zombies again…please don't let me see that again…I can't…I can't do that…_

He found a truck shell, half submerged in the sludge. It had a wooden door installed in its back, with the words "office" painted on it in a clearly ironic manner.

He hadn't seen anyone on his way through the camp, but he could hear screaming and orders and gunfire from through the smoke - _if these people can't find their way through it…c'mon, they have the advantage, I gave them the advantage…what more can I do for them…?_

He kicked in the door to the truck. Inside was a metallic floor made of welded sheet metal. There were several desks covered in papers, ammo, electronics and a few television screens…

…and a radio…

"For the love of - is _anyone_ there?" Alyx's voice was shouting over it. "I _told_ you not to leave the radio unattended - no, he's not picking up Richard, and I hear gunfire. Something's gone wrong and we still don't know if Gordon's with them -"

"He is," Gordon said aloud.

A pause.

"Gordon?"

"That's me."

"That's you!" Alyx shouted, laughing. "That's him! Gordon Freeman!" There were hoots of laughter, even some clapping from people on the other end. Alyx continued, obviously relieved, "He does it again! You did it again...good grief..."

Gordon was smiling rather broadly, despite everything, and fumbled for something appropriate to say - but a gunshot from Gordon's end awoke him to bloody reality. He began to replace the clip in his machine gun with one lying on the desk. "They're shelling this camp with headcrab rocket things. I've counted three…"

"- headcrab rockets -?" Alyx said incredulously.

"I contained one of them," Gordon continued, "but couldn't get to the other two, so I threw a makeshift smoke bomb. The smoke should have blinded the crabs; I hoped people would know the area well enough to still escape…"

Alyx threw in, "Sure, great, sounds good - listen to me Gordon, you get out of there _now_. You know better than us the danger here -"

"Also I shot one of our own in the leg," Gordon interrupted, his voice oddly monotonous, "so that I could get his machine gun - there was no time…but I shouldn't make excuses. If he dies you'll have to execute me, it's only fair. Or just shoot my leg too -"

"What? No, Gordon, shut up," Alyx said. "You're alive - that's like…that's what counts right now to me, alright? You've got to get out of there, _now_ -"

"I haven't been checking on the personnel here," Gordon began insisting, in the same tone. "I don't know if they're in trouble. I have to get them out -"

"Listen, _Gordon_ ," Alyx replied firmly. "You cannot do that right now. They knew what they were getting into, alright? They can take care of themselves. You've done great."

"Okay," Gordon said.

"I'm serious Gordon. Nobody needs to execute you, okay? Forget about that. It doesn't matter…you are under immense pressure, okay? You are doing _fantastic_ , okay?"

"I…thanks," Gordon replied, swallowing with a dry throat. "But those people…"

"Gordon," Alyx repeated, almost sharply, "We need you to get to us, okay?" There was some interruption, "- _no Richardson, I'm not - shut up while I'm talking to him or I'll - no, I'll take as long as I want_ \- Hey, Gordon," she continued, "you've got to be a bit selfish, here, okay? You have to worry about _you_ , right now, okay -?"

Gordon was starting to silently cry. He felt like a winepress, and the juices were leaking from his eyes whether he liked it or not. "Thanks again," Gordon managed, as sincerely as possible. Then, without emotion, he continued: "There's a boat here, somewhere. A motor boat. Where should I meet you?"

"You're welcome," Alyx replied. "And take that boat down the river. Go south - in an hour you'll reach a red barn. That's one of ours. If something goes wrong - and at this rate, it will - you're going to keep on south down the river -"

CRASH.

Energy thrummed through the H.E.V. suit. It sparked across his smeared glasses and grazed his cheeks. Then he felt a numbness and momentary exhaustion…the suit had absorbed a severe electric shock.

Gordon realized the radio was no longer working; it had been shocked too. In fact, it was smoking from the inside, and smelled like burnt plastic.

 _Something got wrecked outside,_ Gordon realized, and looking down, saw a few leftover sparks scurry across the metal floor. _A live wire or something, and it sent a surge through the truck's metal._

Gordon tried for a few moments to bring the radio back. He could still hear Alyx's voice. He wanted to hear that voice again, just a few more sentences. He was going to lose his mind, and her voice was the only thing keeping him grounded.

But it was useless. He smacked the radio across the "office", and crushed it beneath his heel. He was irate.

He breathed deeply. He kicked the radio again.

"I'm such a weirdo," he mumbled absent-mindedly.

\- When something appeared at the truck-office's door.

Gordon turned to face it.

 _No…_

Gordon drained of color.

The figure stumbled towards him, like a marionette…

Gordon saw a headcrab -

\- engulfing a man's head -

\- like a hungry octopus -

\- green slime was oozing through the man's shirt -

\- it flecked as they swung their way around -

Gordon's heart was going to burst his own arteries. Everything was on such high alert in him that he couldn't function, like an overloaded lightbulb, like a downed power cable -

Gordon could hear the victim's voice sobbing weakly beneath the parasite. He was grasping unwillingly at Freeman with bloody fingers, weeping, weeping…"Iiiii'mmmm ssssoooorrryyyy…"

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Gordon was unloading the gun's clip into the man. In the truck, the sound was deafening. The casings jangled sharply against the metal floor. Gordon watched with dazed fascination as the bullets punched through the man's shirt, into the chest, rippling the flesh at high speed, like pouring rain in a pond. After a few seconds the man fell backwards in a bloody, torn heap, and in turn, the headcrab fell from his face like a wet burlap sack.

Gordon chose not to look at the ruined face underneath - he had seen it enough times before.

He felt like vomiting instead.

As fast as possible, he ransacked the office for more ammo clips, but only found two. _I've got to be a bit more frugal,_ he thought absently, as he reloaded. Anything to keep him occupied. Then he stepped out into the mustard mist. He saw the shapes of personnel running along the walkways. He saw glimpses of headcrabs leaping. There was gunfire, there were screams.

 _You idiots…_ Gordon thought bitterly.

A personnel approached him from the left, limping a little. "Free Man?" he asked, then saw the body of the dispatched zombie. " _Das ist Jakob, sie haben Jakob_ …!"

Gordon grabbed him by the shoulder, and roughly pointed in the direction of the camp's entrance pipe. "Exit! Now! Uh… _Haus Gang_ \- _eile! Ja?_ "

The man looked at Gordon blankly. " _Ausgang_?"

"Sure! Now go -!"

A headcrab leapt from the smoke.

It snagged onto the German man's face, digging its legs into his cheek, scrambling for his scalp…Gordon backhanded it sideways. Its legs tore the man's skin as it clung on - Gordon smacked it again, and it flopped onto the boardwalk - Gordon brought his boot heel down onto the forefront of its body. Teeth and cartilage crackled, and guts spewed like fruit from a pie.

"Free Man -!" the man repeated, in growing awe, tears from his eyes mixing with his bloodied face. He was grasping onto Gordon's forearms. "Save us! Save us!"

The fear in the man's eyes was itself terrifying. Gordon understood.

" _Ausgang!_ " Gordon said firmly, pointing again. The man began running.

And Gordon followed, protecting him, and looking for more survivors.

* * *

"May I have my gun back?" the bearded bear-man man asked, his voice slurred from emergency anesthetic.

"No," Gordon answered simply.

He was at the pipe's entrance again. It was ten and a half minutes later. They counted seven of the ten personnel as they had gone rushing through.

BANGBANGBANG - Gordon shredded another headcrab as it tried to scramble across a pier.

"Bajeezus!" the rat man shouted. "How do you catch 'em so fast?"

Gordon didn't answer for a moment; then, "Because I have to."

A pause.

"Demetri is still on guard in the tube," the rat-man continued awkwardly. "That's eight."

"I only killed one zombie," Gordon said.

"Jacob," the rat-man replied with dark sobriety. "Without you and your weird smoke bomb it would've been at least half of us stumbling around like him. Headcrabs are fast; and Combine's hardly _dared_ to try shelling since Ravenholm…much less in the city…how are they gonna contain this…? Anyway, we still can't handle the buggers in these numbers - and that's half because of sheer panic -"

"It's warranted."

"Nine accounted for, which leaves Arlene. Poor girl's likely cowering in a corner -"

There was a horrible crash from within the camp. Another shell had landed.

" _Lunatics_!" the rat-man shouted. "We'll have to scratch the boat, _and_ Arlene - you've gotta come with us, doctor - Hey! Where are you -?"

Gordon was already running back into the camp.

 _Arlene,_ he thought. _I can at least put her out of her misery -_

He rounded a corner into another pipe. He heard the headcrabs croaking throughout the camp, like mating frogs. He felt awful shivers up his spine, like he was traveling through curtains of fresh spider-web…

 _There lived a certain man in Russia long ago…_

 _He was big and strong; in his eyes a flaming glow…_

He rounded another corner; he was now in a boat shed - and there was the motor boat, docked in a small wooden harbor, floating on the toxic soup. It had a patchy seat, and behind that a metal frame holding the engine and propellers. It had a motorcycle's steering grips wired into the front. The whole rig rested on two long, buoyant blocks, like lifesavers crossed with skis.

And somebody was still there, filling its tank with gas.

Upon seeing Gordon, the person withdrew the fuel tube, set the container on the floor and stood at attention. It was a twenty-two year old woman with short, blonde hair, a long flat nose, and full lips set low on her oval face, in a melancholy expression. She was dressed in civilian issued clothes, like most of the other rebels.

" _Doktor_ Freeman!" she exclaimed, making hasty salute. "Arlene Fischer _steht Ihnen zur Verfügung_! _Ich hoffte, du würdest bald auftauchen_ ; _dieses Boot ist bereit zu gehen_!"

Freeman looked at her in utter disbelief.

 _Arlene Fischer at your command…?_ he translated.

She continued, her voice breaking a little, " _Ich werde die Krabben aufhalten, während du entkommst. Ja?_ "

Gordon just stared. He could see her whole body was trembling, and tears were welling in her eyes.

" _Nous avons déjà choisi_ ," she managed.

"Get in the boat," Gordon replied, softly.

A pause. " _Wie bitte_?" she stammered.

Gordon seized her hand and forcibly threw her into the steering seat.

Fifteen headcrabs began leaping around the corner into the shed.

"Drive!" Gordon bellowed, gesturing violently towards the exit of the dock. She started the engines; it sounded like a lion belching. Gordon opened fire on the swarm - BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG -

" _Doktor_!" the woman screamed, as the boat began to move forwards. Gordon leaped from the docks onto the boat's framework, avoiding the propellers. His weight made the whole boat pop a wheelie so high it nearly capsized, but it came back down, just as it roared out from the shed, past the camp's docks, out onto the algae infested river, under the fiery sun and the smelted iron clouds.

* * *

The river was the epitome of pollution. It was not dead, but living dead. Whatever was now in it, Freeman could no longer call "water"; it carried the boat like water, but it smelled of old, wet socks, and was colored like jungle camouflage. Occasionally, bulging islands of muck would present themselves before the boat, but they were so slick that the boat rushed over them without a loss in speed.

They were outside the turmoil of the city: they were in something of rurality now. Things were much quieter out here; a vacuum for the disconcerting roar of the airboat. Gordon could see a landscape of rolling hills and fields dotted with great gnarled oaks and starved cypresses. In the distance there were abandoned farmhouses, but the view was often interrupted by the stained white concrete walls of neglected industrial plumbing networks, that barricaded off large swathes of the river's bank.

They rode in silence, with Freeman now settled, uncomfortably, behind the driver's seat, machine gun at the ready.

 _We're dead in the water,_ Gordon thought. _How is this a better method than just walking? Everyone in a mile radius is going to hear this racket, especially so close to where they hit the camp._

 _Then again, it's a big world, and they've had to get volunteers to run the city's "civil protection". In fact, there's no way they could have enough soldiers brought over here in the first invasion to maintain this conquest, especially when people like Alyx keep picking them off._

 _If there were no limits to the Combine's ability to transport soldiers from their home base to Earth, then surely they wouldn't need volunteers. Nor would this countryside be so empty._

 _Therefore, there are limits to their transportation, which makes sense. It took an entire Resonance Cascade to power the first portal to Xen, and that was hardly stable, dropping monsters all over, randomly. To get organized troops through would be no easy feat, it would take enormous energy._

 _Therefore, they can't get reinforcements, at least not right now. So their numbers are dwindling, so they herd all humans into the city centers to control them, but the countryside is left abandoned and lawless…_

The airboat gradually came to a stop, the engine shutting off.

Freeman looked at Arlene for an explanation.

" _Du sprichst Englisch_?" she asked, and after a moment, with dripping accent, "Do you speak English?"

"Yeah," Freeman replied.

"My English…is bad," she said, and then, her voice growing more and more feverish, " _Ich bin in den Slums aufgewachsen;_ I am in the slums - _Es gab keine Zeit oder Gelegenheit, Englisch zu lernen. Und dann haben sie uns alle zusammen gemischt, damit wir uns nicht verstehen konnten-_ "

"I can't understand you," Gordon said softly.

She halted: " _Wie bitte_?"

"We are going to…" Freeman stopped and rubbed his forehead. " _Wir gehen…das rot…scheuer._ The red barn - _Rote Scheune_. Down the river -" he gestured forwards.

She bit her sad lip and nodded. " _Ja_." She turned to start the engine.

"Wait," Freeman interrupted. "Why were you still at the…em...Why didn't you run…? _Du hast nine laufen_?"

" _Du hast nicht gelaufen_?" she corrected.

"Sure, _Ja_. Why didn't you run away? With the others?"

She blinked. She looked almost like a child. "Zhe boat…vas not…good, yet."

Silence.

" _Du bist der freie Mann,_ " she offered. _"Die Vortigaunts sagen, du wirst uns retten._ You vill save us."

Freeman did not answer at first.

"You were going to suffer worse than death, to gas a boat for me," he finally said.

" _Tod, keine Niederlage_ ," she replied.

 _Death, not defeat._ Freeman translated.

He sighed deeply, and after a few moments of calculation, managed, " _Du bist alles Idioten, aber danke._ " _You're all idiots, but thank you._

She looked confused for a moment, then decided to smile. " _Bitte schön_."

" _Danke_ ," Gordon said again. "Now drive. _Rote Scheune_."

* * *

The red barn sat on a rocky crest that dipped into the riverbank. One half stood firmly on the grassy plateau of the crest's top; the other half stretched over the water, supported by multiple beams drilled into the riverbed. These also supported a large porch extending from the barn's front; a cement dock was in the riverbank, and an iron ladder reached from it up to the barn's porch. The barn itself was old and grungy, its red paint faded and peeling, but still reasonably intact. On its roof, a second, smaller barn was situated, like a poorly conceived addition to the building. An old, complex crane and pulley system was rigged into its front, and dangling from it like a donkey's carrot was a large wooden crate bearing the lambda symbol in orange spray paint.

Smoke was rising from behind it, as if from an unseen chimney.

Arlene switched gears as soon as they spotted the structure; the growl of the engine shrank to a buzz, and they continued forwards at a walking pace.

"Does the building have a chimney?" Gordon asked.

Arlene pointed at the smoke. " _Rauchen:_ I do not know…why that is there."

Freeman kept the machine gun ready.

As they grew closer, he saw someone on the barn's overhanging porch. He pointed them out to Arlene, who nodded. It was clearly human, and not an Overwatch officer. Their clothing was dark, unlike the civilian scrubs Gordon was used to seeing. By now their boat was in full view of the figure: only a quarter mile of river lay between them.

"Wait to see what they do," Freeman said. " _Auf Sie warten_."

The figure grew odder as they approached: it seemed to be a man, somewhat old, dressed in a black business suit and adjusting his tie -

That smile: _A passenger, Mr. Freeman…? Heroic as your actions may be…I fear that they have…hm…made you…_ late _to heroism elsewhere…_

The smoke was trailing…

…no signs of life…

The G-man, speaking so softly only Freeman could hear: _So much pain and so…little time…if only there…were not all these_ restrictions…

The G-man turned and walked away…

" _Doktor_?"

He was gone.

" _Doktor?_ "

"Yes?"

" _Ich denke, es muss ein Trick des Lichts gewesen sein; die Figur ist weg._ "

Freeman translated, _it was a trick of the light, the figure is gone…_

They were at the dock. Freeman motioned for Arlene to stay put, and keep the engine running.

He clambered up the ladder; he was on the porch, where the G-man had stood. No sight of him anywhere.

Freeman approached the great double barn doors. One was slightly ajar: he edged it open with the tip of his gun - He remembered Black Mesa, and how every door he opened was another risk, that feeling of fight or flight…

There was a headcrab rocket crashed inside, through the left ceiling. Smoke from its back end was trailing up through like a chimney. Parasites engulfed five dead bodies of rebels, and there were plenty of the frogticks crawling around besides - they wandered aimlessly about the room until they sensed the fresh meat of Gordon Freeman -

 _I fear that they have made you late to heroism elsewhere…_

Freeman was going to shut and block the door on them, but he saw something in the corner of the room, something priceless to Freeman at this moment - a yet undamaged radio -

 _Alyx…_

* * *

Arlene was frozen stiff with fear.

There was machine gun fire in the barn, and the sound of things breaking.

Then a horrible explosion, and several windows shattered. Arlene held back a scream as a limp headcrab splashed into the toxic river nearby.

 _Nein…bitte nein…bitte nein…_ She had met people at the red barn station: they were a French and English unit, but Arlene had thought they were nice…

And now…

She started at a new sound, from far away. A beat of wings…it pounded the air like prison bars, trying to break through, and the long moan of an engine soon joined it in the background. Thump-thump-thump-thump-

 _Hubschrauber_.

She leapt from the boat onto the cement cliff, clinging to the cracks and weeds as she snuck over for a better look. She saw a helicopter was approaching from the horizon, only a hundred feet off the water.

"Freeman!" she screamed. "Freeman! _Hubschrauber! Helikopter!_ "

It was closing in. She ducked back under the porch, hid in the boat. Any noise from the barn was drowned out in the cacophony of the helicopter. She could hear it circling over the top of the barn, before settling itself directly overhead like a territorial cat.

Her knuckles were white, gripping the boat's frame.

Overwatch radios above; she couldn't make them out, and they always spoke English, anyway.

"- _ghkdsatk ksjdfer sdfjakkejrkjoispoajsdklsa -_ "

"- _dskhke khsdkukje ksjdk_ -"

"- _sdkfjkerkj SDHksdjf SHDK -_ "

Silence.

"- _sderer gtre free man tehkas_ -"

" _\- ser free man earkjlgh aslkdjerhkjl - GEKRYEKRLSEJR -!_ "

"- _GEKRYEKR! GEKRYEKR!_ -"

BANBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Bullets ripped through the porch. Arlene leaped back onto the concrete cliff again -

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

"- _GEKRYEKR! GEKRY -!"_

Abrupt stops. Scream of the radio -

Another explosion - BAANGG -

An Overwatch soldier stumbled down the concrete cliff to Arlene's right. They were bleeding from the shoulder - They were fumbling with something - they tripped into the water and -

\- exploded from the torso -

\- their arm went flying off and ricocheted off the airboat's frame before splashing into the water.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG - Another soldier fell from the porch into the water. The body floated, red swirling with green.

Then Freeman appeared. He skipped the iron ladder and landed heavily on the dock. He was spattered in blood and slime, and cradled in his arms a whole radio and a large, crumpled map with two thumbtacks still in its corners.

"Drive," he said.

But Arlene couldn't let go of the cliff. She had heard of war violence, she knew it in the abstract, and even now she knew they had to get away, but her body was not convinced - her fingers were numb from gripping so hard, and she couldn't relax them -

Freeman hugged her from behind, and with tremendous force ripped her from the cliff - her fingers scraped and bled - He set her gently into the airboat, between the driver's seat and the back frame, uncomfortable on the radio and map.

" _Es tut mir leid_ ," she was sobbing, apologetically. "Sorry, very sorry - _Es tut mir so leid, es tut mir so leid…_ "

The airboat roared: they catapulted forwards, out from under the porch and into the fading light of a bloody sun. Arlene looked behind them: the barn was on fire, the smoke dark and opaque. But the helicopter sawed through it in pursuit, raging up the river after them. In its wake, a swarm of Overwatch soldiers rushed from the landscape surrounding the barn, and some were trying to shoot the airboat as it escaped - Small machine gun fire rained on them from behind, a few bullets smacking against the metal frame and Freeman's H.E.V. suit. Its energy field was nearly depleted, and Gordon felt each hit like a baseball bat.

He was pushing top speed. The slightest bumps made them soar into the air for seconds at a time - Arlene was too dizzy to think straight -

There was a large bridge up ahead, running over the river - Two Overwatch guards were positioned on it. They opened fire. Two rows of splashes erupted in the river as they tried to hit the boat that was screaming towards them at eighty miles an hour - Freeman was blocking his face with his armored arm, bullets banged against it -

\- and Arlene numbly felt something sting her in the arm, then in the leg…

The airboat smashed through a rotted wood blockade, and they were rushing under the bridge - they hit something underneath them and it sent them flying through to the other side; they crashed down hard on the water, but somehow they didn't capsize - Arlene watched the helicopter race over the bridge after them.

They charged down the river, between great cement walls on either side - eighty, ninety, one hundred miles per hour - But a wall was coming up. Two great hooping sewer tunnels were in it: Freeman was aiming for the one of the left. But on top of the wall, there was a lumbering, armor-plated military vehicle, a four-wheeled tank, and something launched from it in a plume of smoke -

\- missile? -

\- _they know it's me - they aren't playing -_

Freeman kept accelerating - a hundred and twenty miles per hour -

KABOOM.

A blast of air hit them from behind, and it was raining sludge - but the missile had missed them, and only sent them careened even faster into the tunnel, where Freeman finally began slowing down -

They were in a drainage maze. Freeman continued, running the engine low, until they were as untraceable as a wolf spider in brambles.

* * *

The map was highly detailed, if somewhat hard to read. It led them to an abandoned hideaway, emergent from an old cement sewer pipe. It was a boggy crack between concrete and natural rock. There were old wood and metal structures built onto the concrete: scaffolding hosting old moldy mattresses, fly infested buckets, a dozen empty soup and spam cans, a rudimentary pulley elevator, a broken propane stove and, strangely, an entire washing machine. Freeman deduced it had been refugee living space on the underground railroad, but was threatened to be compromised and abandoned. The scaffolding raised them above the swamp. In fact, as they had entered the drainage pipes, the water had grown less and less polluted, until finally it resembled _real_ water again, a darkly glass under the setting sun.

Arlene was nearly unconscious when they arrived.

Freeman saw she was bleeding heavily from both her left forearm and thigh, soaking her scrubs dark red. The adrenaline was wearing off and she was gasping in pain. Without her protest, Freeman stripped off her scrubs and tore them into bandaging to stop the blood. She was left shivering in an undershirt and shorts. Gordon quickly saw the full severity of her injuries: two wounds in her left thigh, with no exits, and one to her left arm that seemed to have damaged the bone and then exited into the left breast.

He had seen similar damage at Black Mesa. They hadn't lived through it.

Her bleeding was stopped, for now at least. He repositioned her in the airboat so she would be more comfortable, and set about to find medical supplies and blankets.

The helicopter thundered overhead. Freeman had hidden the airboat in shadow, but he had to dive for cover. After a few minutes it passed, and he resumed.

He scaled the scaffolding, but struggled to find anything useful. The place had been abandoned for a week, at least. Reaching to the topmost platform, he caught glimpses of the horizon through the rocky crags: near the evening sun's grave, he could see the silhouette of the Overwatch citadel, a black bar in the sky, an inhuman intrusion. No birds chirped or frogs croaked. No fireflies came out to dance. All was silent now; all was dead. The river lands were an infected scab.

He finally found a small crate, which he smashed open with his crowbar. Inside were several unopened soup cans and a syringe packet labeled "Vortigaunt blood". He brought this to Arlene, and asked if she knew how to administer it, but she had become completely unresponsive. She still had a pulse, but over the course of five minutes her breathing quickly diminished, and Freeman, growing desperate, injected the serum into her healthy wrist. Meanwhile, he began performing the breathing portion of C.P.R. in an effort to stimulate her lungs.

She seemed to awaken. Her eyes gazed blearily at him.

" _Hallo_ ," she greeted him softly.

"Hi there. Stay with me. You're going to be fine."

" _Du bist…ein…guter Mann._ "

"Sure, thanks."

" _Ich bin…in dich verliebt_ …" she said.

Freeman stopped and stared. "Verliebt" meant "in love".

 _Are you kidding me…?_ Freeman thought.

" _Du bist ein schöner Mann_ …" she continued, smiling. Then she began coughing uncontrollably and blood flecked out.

By now the blood had begun soaking through the scrub bandaging; there was not enough material to clot all the wounds at once. Freeman ran to scavenge the mattresses, ripping out their soggy, moldy material. He had no choice. He did his best to squeeze out old moisture and used them to thicken the bandaging.

Arlene was fading out again.

" _Ich wollte so schlecht zu lieben..."_ she murmured.

 _I really want to love…?_ Freeman translated.

" _Es fühlt sich gut an."_

 _It feels good..._

" _Danke_ …"

Her breathing stopped.

Freeman, panicking, returned to C.P.R.

It had no effect. She did not begin breathing again.

"I'm…I'm sorry…" Freeman said. "I don't…know how to…"

Her pulse was becoming erratic. He realized the bullet to her breast had likely penetrated towards her heart.

 _The serum isn't working,_ he thought. _She's lost too much blood already; it won't have time to work._

Arlene did not wake up. Her skin grew pale and cold.

The sun disappeared, leaving Freeman in the twilight.

* * *

Freeman got the radio onto the right channel. It took him twenty minutes of fiddling, before he heard a human voice say, "Confirm? Is this Station 7? Red Barn?"

"This is Gordon Freeman. Station 7 is down."

"Wait, what?"

"I need to get in contact with Alyx Vance."

A few minutes passed as he passed through the bureaucracy, and was redirected to the proper channel. Gordon, in fact, had stripped off the H.E.V. suit, down to his sweat soaked shorts and T-shirt, so that he could examine the awful welts where the bullets had been barely deflected by the suit's depleting energy field. Four bruises on his chest, a nasty one on the front of his shoulder, and another three along his forearms. It was a miracle nothing was broken, but his bones had begun throbbing.

Alyx finally came through. "Gordon?"

"Hi there," Gordon said hollowly. It had only been a few hours since they last talked, but it was just as relieving to hear her voice.

"Gordon! You've got to stop doing this disappear-reappear thing!" she gave an exasperated laugh, the relief of great stress. "You're calling from the Station 7 radio-? Are you still there?"

"No. But close by. I think…" he did a few calculations. "About a mile and a half up the river from it. Maybe two. Station 7 is the red barn, right?"

"Yep."

"They're all dead. Headcrab rockets."

Alyx swore, but away from the radio.

Freeman continued, "And then a helicopter and a regiment of Overwatch came and I got out of dodge."

"You lugged the whole radio with you?"

"I wanted to finish our earlier conversation."

"Heh, you charmer," Alyx said absent-mindedly. She said something to another officer; then, "You sound okay, but are you?"

"Sure."

A pause.

"Like, emotionally?" Alyx asked.

"I just watched a young woman die under my medical care. So about the same as always."

Another pause.

"She was from Station 7?"

"No, from the docks. Arlene Fischer. She was gassing the airboat and I forced her along so she wouldn't get headcrabbed. She wanted to stay and be a martyr. So I guess she got her…her wish."

Pause.

"…Alright, Gordon," Alyx said finally. "We're coming for you. Give us your location and _stay there_ -"

"She used her last breaths to declare undying love for me."

Pause.

"Ah _jeez_ , Gordon…" Alyx groaned.

"Why did she do that?" Gordon demanded softly.

"What? Gordon -"

"Because you told me the citadel shut down the sex drive."

"Well yeah, but Gordon -"

"She didn't know me, Alyx. She didn't even speak English."

"Gordon -!"

" _WHAT_?!"

His outbreak was unexpected. Up until then his voice had remained unnaturally monotone. But suddenly the dam cracked, and a million gallons were trying to escape in cutting sprays. It was violently defensive, the growls of a cornered bear displaying its teeth, tired and angry and ready to kill without eating.

Alyx tread carefully.

"Gordon, it's not…surprising she would do that. Especially _because_ of the citadel. Sex drive is tied up with emotions, right? And all us younger kids who grew up with that citadel in place, going through puberty with it - a lot of us still have issues. Because all the citadel does is block off chemicals in the body; it can't stop the human spirit from wanting emotional intimacy. In fact, the physical blockage only makes the emotional need stronger, though distorted and confused and immature…"

Gordon didn't respond.

"And, I mean," Alyx ventured, choosing her words carefully, "you said she was young, and you're a tall, dark stranger, y'know? I had that crush on you when I was only a kid…"

Still no answer.

"Gordon…?"

"It's like…she was falling…" Gordon said hoarsely, "…and when she said she loved me, it was her reaching out her hand for me to save her, but I knew if I took it then she would…I don't know…she would never let go. Even if she died, her hand wouldn't let go of mine, and I'd be lugging her body around with me, along with everything else I'm carrying. But I don't even know her…so I can't do that for her, I can't give her that. But I don't want to just watch her fall…why did she have to reach out to _me_ …? Why give _me_ responsibility for her heart…?"

More silence.

"Because you're a hero," Alyx answered simply.

Gordon was sitting in the seat of the airboat. It was dark as pitch now; the night sky was overcast, swaddling the moon with black gauze. The only light was from the few glowing dials on the radio. Arlene Fischer's body was buried a hundred yards away in a shallow grave of mud. The air was wet, and the only natural sound was the breeze in the crabgrass, and the occasional lonely croak of a frog.

Gordon had buried Arlene in a shallow grave of sludge, twenty paces away.

"I assume you've found a safe place?" Alyx asked.

"Seems safe so far." Gordon answered.

"Good," Alyx said, her voice hard and forthright. "Gordon: _stay there_. We will travel through the night to your location and hopefully get there by tomorrow noon. Don't move. There is no reason for you to move. You've been through a lot today, and I think it will be best for everyone if you take some time off, alright? We'll make the extra push to get you, and we can all go back together."

Pause. The grass rustled. A frog croaked.

"Alright, I'll wait here," Gordon lied.

Instantly, "Sorry, but…that doesn't convince me, somehow…?"

 _She's good,_ Gordon thought. Then he said, "I've got a map here. There's a lot of red circles around a 'hydro plant', south down the river."

"Yeah," Alyx answered, "it's an old industrial complex with a hydraulic dam and warehouse storage. It's controlled by the Combine; they use it as an inter-city outpost. They mostly repair their vehicles there. Why?"

"Alright. Perfect," Gordon began. "Because the headcrab rockets didn't come from the city center. They came from the rural areas. Even the one that hit Station 7; it hit the _left_ side of the barn, _away_ from the city. And, the Combine doesn't have nearly enough manpower to maintain too many bases outside the cities. This is a big outpost, so I suspect it's the _only_ outpost. Meaning it's the only place the headcrab rockets could come from."

"Gordon, what are you thinking right now?"

"Now," Gordon continued, "the Combine use a computer network. I saw Barney using it. Meaning every base connected to the Combine must have some kind of access to that network. Meaning there's a chance one could both take out the headcrab cannons _and_ get some more information on the citadel, just by infiltrating that base. Maybe I could interrogate someone into accessing it -"

" _Gordon_ …"

"I don't like headcrabs and I don't like the citadel -"

"Gordon, for the love of -"

"I've got a bulletproof suit and can't seem to die anyway - everybody just drops dead around me, so I'm going to the hydro plant, and I'd request that you _not_ do that, because members of your team _will_ die and I've quite enough of that for today…" But he was starting to cry again. Freeman was cursing himself internally: couldn't he just talk without blubbering like a child -?

On the other end, it sounded for a moment as though Alyx was going to say something, but thought better of it. There was radio silence for a full minute. Someone was talking in the background of her feed.

"It'll be easy as pie," Gordon added with morbid dryness, once he'd regained control. "Drinks are on me when I get back."

"I think this is a bad idea," Alyx said. "I think you need to rest." She paused, as though expecting Gordon to respond, but he didn't. "I think you're doing this as self-punishment. You feel like you have to redeem yourself, somehow. For what happened at Black Mesa, for what's happened here, for what happened to Arlene, for what happened to that fellow you shot at the docks…" Gordon still did not respond, and she continued, "But that's not how redemption works. You _can't_ redeem yourself. Something else would have to do it. Something else has to justify the bad. You can't work the scales yourself; you can't add good stuff on one side of the scale to make the bad go away…it'll _always_ be there. All you can do is…I dunno, change who you are, or change how you see it. Maybe grow something on it, like compost."

Gordon still did not respond.

Alyx kept talking. "I tried being a therapist at Black Mesa East, for post-traumatic stress. That was a few years ago; I was trying to retire from the fighting, I guess."

The _non-sequitur_ intrigued Freeman. He finally spoke: "But you're not a therapist now?"

Alyx replied, "Naw, it didn't work out."

"Why's that?"

"I've got a horrible temper."

Gordon actually laughed. "You _did_ ," he said. "You were a fiery kid. I thought maybe it didn't carry over."

"No, you just haven't seen me a whole lot yet," Alyx said.

Gordon rubbed one of his bruises, soothing it. "It's a shame. You've gotten pretty good at therapy stuff."

"I think you bring it out of me."

They both sat for a minute, in relative quiet, on their opposite ends of the radio feed.

"Alyx," Gordon said. "I could make you a promise to stay here, and mean it; but I hear so much as a twig cracking and I'm gone without a thought. I'm not disciplined like a soldier; I'm just a survivor - I do my own thing. And I'm going to go to that hydro dam. I'm going to destroy things and maybe get information. That's what I did in Black Mesa. And that's what I need to do right now. I can't give you a better reason than that."

Alyx actually sighed.

"Alright," she replied. "I still think it's a bad idea, but I can't stop you."

Something about how she said it made Gordon incredibly sad. He almost reconsidered his entire plan, but it wasn't enough. His course was set.

"But," Alyx added, almost slyly, "you can't stop me from meeting you there to help."

"I also think that's a bad idea," Gordon replied. "But I can't stop you, either."

* * *

Alyx had information on the base, as much as the rebels had gathered. It was enough to make something of a decent plan. Alyx and her team were closer to the dam; they would attack first and draw the enemy fire into a guerilla fight on the south side. "We're not playing martyr for you, Gordon," Alyx assured him. "It's a distraction. We just want them occupied and annoyed." Gordon could then enter a northern door and begin the work of sabotage. The glaring problem, of course, was they did not know what precisely was _inside_ the building.

But in a strange way, Freeman preferred that. It was how he was used to operating. He'd had no idea what Xen would be like, and he'd succeeded there. Snaking tunnels in the floating rocks…everything seemed alive and trying to cling to him…

Freeman shook his head and moved on.

The briefing was done, the radio was off. Gordon was readying the airboat. The half-moon peered through the torn clouds, giving him just enough light to work without needing his suit's flashlight.

"Such a… _shame_ …isn't it, Mr. Freeman…?"

Gordon turned. He could just barely see the dark presence of a man, tallish, well dressed, standing fifteen feet away on a strewn plank of wood, so as not to ruin his shoes. The G-man continued, "As I told you before -"

Gordon fired the machine gun at him.

Time stopped.

Five bullets had already escaped the gun, flying towards the G-man at errant trajectories, lit in this single frame of time by the gunpowder's flash. The G-man was also illuminated, just enough that Gordon could see the mothy age of his wrinkled skin, and the malevolence in his eyes, and his mouth gradually changing from a self-satisfied smirk to a disenchanted scowl. There was no sound, not even an echo. The bullets were frozen in the air.

The G-man reached up and adjusted his tie. "I was only going to…perhaps…share a _tender_ moment…" He reached out and spun one of the bullets with his bony middle finger. It twirled in place like a coin. "Is this your submission of… _resignation_ …?"

"Only if it actually killed you," Gordon said.

The G-man smiled. "Oh?"

"I didn't think it would work, but I figured I'd try."

"Hmm…you are…quite the _find_ , Mr. Freeman. Quite the _find_. Every moment you… _blossom_ , show newer and newer colors and shapes. And you never seem to stop…like a train that never _arrives_ …hm… _limitless potential…_ "

They stood for a moment in silence. The G-man continued to smile in the flash of the gunpowder. His head tilted forwards slightly, so that the shadows completely engulfed his eyes, save for a little reflection of light in each of them, so that they gleamed like a tiger's.

"You represent a _tremendous_ investment, Mr. Freeman," the G-man finally continued, "One of far _more_ worth than even…this Earth. The _right_ man in the _wrong_ place…can make all the difference…in the _world_. Thus, you are my priority, Mr. Freeman. Nevertheless…I have agreed to abide by certain…hmm… _restrictions_ …and if you go forward with your current plan, your _fate_ will have no... _guarantee_ until your arrival at Black Mesa East…"

"Are you going to stop me?"

"No; the choice is yours, as always, Mr. Freeman. I can guarantee your safe arrival at Black Mesa East, _if_ you do not continue with this plan. But if you _do_ …there is no guarantee how it will…turn out. However," and here the G-man's smile grew malicious, "if you _succeed_ in your plans, then your return as…an investment _doubles_." The G-man straightened his tie again. "And I don't _mind_ a gamble."

"What kind of 'return' do you mean? Does it salt my meat?" Freeman asked dryly.

"Hm…" The G-man only continued smiling for a moment, and then, "Well, why did you accept my…offer of employment, Mr. Freeman?"

Unhesitating: "Great benefits."

"Indeed," the G-man agreed, sarcastic. "For instance… _detachment_ from…needypeople like Arlene? Detachment from everyone, because…Mr. Freeman…you care too much about what is only _mortal_ …? You would be…a god, if that would let you save them all. That's why you wanted teleportation…? To arrive and escape at will…?"

Freeman did not answer.

" _But everything dies_ ," the G-man said. "Even _stars_. It is all…void in disguise. That is what you will learn…Mr. Freeman. Everything dies… _except_ …"

"Except you?" Freeman offered.

"Ah, but _you_ as well, Mr. Freeman," the G-man replied. "Whenever there are two, you always survive while the other dies. The coin toss is ever in your favor. -" Freeman struggled to remain stoic "- I wonder how?"

"Through you, I assume," Freeman replied coldly. "You'll keep me alive until the last star blows up. And you keep helping me out down here -"

"Not nearly as much as you think," the G-man interrupted. "I did not intervene at all during the Black Mesa incident…I only spectated, as I do…and you did _marvelously well_ , as I told you, but…hm…here is the _crux_ …of what I am asking you," and the G-man straightened his already straightened tie. "99.999% of our…interviewees choose _death_ over employment, Mr. Freeman. They are _broken_ by the…preliminaries; by their own little…incidents. The one time they can choose…the coin toss, and they choose to _lose_ it. They are tired of playing. _So why aren't you?_ "

Gordon Freeman stared the G-man directly in the eyes, as fearlessly as he could. "Why not?"

The G-man grinned so broad, Freeman could see his teeth.

And in a moment - Freeman came to. It was dark again. His gun was smoking but there was no echo of the gunshots. The G-man had vanished.

* * *

Freeman rode up the river in the moonlight - sixty miles-an-hour, for two hours: a hundred and twenty miles south of City 17. He stopped the boat underneath an old highway bridge, one Alyx had described to him. There was a lambda symbol painted on one of its pillars; Gordon left it underneath and climbed up the brambly slope to reach the road. He was on foot from here on in.

He jogged another two miles down the road, which curved around and roughly followed the river to the south. The only sounds were lonely frogs; it was a pale wasteland.

When finally, there: the complex, a concrete sprawl clenching its jaw on the river. Large warehouse yards with great metal storage units set in rows, and behind those, a large building attached to the dry dam, and overlooking an artificial valley behind it. But closest to Freeman was the garage, a three story building on the northwest corner of the complex. That was Freeman's destination.

He was startled by a distant gunshot. It came from south of the complex. He thought he saw the tiniest blinks of gunpowder flashing from the wasteland over there.

He left the road and dove into the brambles, slugging a little in the muck, passing old scraggly trees and a ruined wire fence.

" _There's a door on the north side of the building, with little traffic through,"_ Alyx had said. " _There's always a guard posted there, and I doubt they'd withdraw them and leave themselves completely open._ "

There was indeed a guard there: Gordon brought out his pistol, almost forgotten on its makeshift holster with the crowbar. There was a stretch of forty yards between his cover of bramble and the guarded door. So Gordon, belly on the ground, steadied his arms on the wet rocks, and aimed the pistol - BANG, BANG, BANG -

 _"Good grief, Gordon! You're a killer shot!"_ Barney shouted to him one day in the Black Mesa training rooms. _"You preparing for an alien invasion, or something?"_

 _"I just like shooting,"_ Gordon would say. And that was true, then. _But it's not as much fun now,_ Gordon thought, as he watched the guard flinch, flinch, and crumple. Three hits - arm, side, head. Gordon considered himself lucky, as he ran up towards the door. It was locked with a Combine mechanism. Gordon looked at it for a moment, figured the design, and tried sticking the dying man's finger into a hole on it. Three tries and he got it right. The door opened. Freeman crept in and closed the door behind him.

He was in an empty room, twenty feet by twenty feet. It had been stripped of any original furniture; now it was a sparse military room. There were glass windows and a door leading into the next room, which was similar, but more spacious. There was also a very large computer module wired into the right wall, of the same kind in the interrogation room when Gordon reunited with Barney.

Gordon ducked down and crept his way underneath the window, listening to sounds of people or guards. All was silent, however, but for the occasional blip of the computer or the hum of the building's refurbished air conditioning, trying to keep the temperature above forty-five degrees Fahrenheit -

An image exploded on the computer's screen, and was followed by a squeal from the building's intercom. Freeman nearly leaped in the air from surprise.

It was video of Wallace Breen. He filled the screen with his well-aged, fatherly charisma. His voice rang out clearly through the entire building; like a stick, it stirred Gordon's memory of Black Mesa.

"Good evening, citizens of the new world -" he began. And as he did, Gordon heard voices from the room over, and thought he saw movement there. He ducked down underneath the windows. "- in order to address an emergency. I would have waited until the next scheduled broadcast, but events have transpired today which prompt immediate attention -"

Freeman could hear human voices talking on the other side of the wall and window. There was the trotting of boots, and then the door opened. A man in guard's clothing entered, his facemask and helmet missing: his head was shaved and his skin looked clammy, but otherwise he was quite normal - he halted upon seeing Freeman, and drew his gun -

BANG.

"- Yes," Breen was saying. "We now have direct confirmation of a disruptor in our midst…"

The guard fell dead, shot through the eye with Gordon's pistol. Another guard appeared, gun drawn - BANG BANG - Gordon blocked the bullets with his forearm and shot the man three times in the leg.

"…one who has acquired an almost… _messianic_ reputation in the minds of certain citizens…"

The other guards had retreated. Gordon could hear human voices mixed with Overwatch radios. He went on the offensive, rounding the door's corner and entering the next room. It was a large garage space, opening up to Freeman's right, with automotive parts scattered on tables and helves, and a partly dismantled tank-car in the corner. Several guards dove behind it. One turned and aimed a submachine gun. Nothing was to Freeman's left, but ten feet ahead there was another door, slightly ajar -

"…His figure is synonymous with the darkest urges of instinct, ignorance and decay -"

Breen's voice was cut off completely by the cacophony of the machine gun, as Freeman sprinted across the room and dove through the new door. He shut it behind him and looked up, hoping there would be another door, or a way to circumvent the guards.

No - there was an interrogation chair, and the half-charred corpse of a woman lying in it.

"…Some of the worst excesses of the Black Mesa Incident have been laid directly at his feet…"

There were no other doors in the interrogation room. The corpse was fresh; its smell was familiar to Gordon, a sick parody of burnt pork roast, seasoned with toxins and the musky perfume of smoked spinal fluid. The smell combined with the words Breen was saying against him, until something acrid welled up from Gordon's insides…

"…yet unsophisticated minds continue to imbue him with romantic power…"

Freeman returned to the garage room, peering around from the door. The guards had tipped the tables on their sides, created a crude defensive blockade where they squatted with their guns, as though they were preparing for an army.

They were right to do so.

"…giving him such dangerous poetic labels as the 'One Free Man, the Opener of the Way'…"

Gordon sighed ironically. _Do they really call me that?_

Then, as he took stock of the supplies in the interrogation room, he shouted out, "Who killed the woman in here?"

In response, the guards told him, in so many words, to go rape himself.

Breen's voice: "…the dangers of magical thinking. We have scarcely begun to climb from the dark pit of our species' evolution. Let us not slide backward into oblivion, just as we have finally begun to see the light…"

The room provided Gordon with a metal pipe from the interrogation chair, a small table of metal dental tools (stained with blood), a box of Combine batteries and transfer wires, and a large supply of dead human flesh.

Many things had been rolling in Freeman's head all day, things he hadn't granted full conscious consideration until now, where everything, as if by Providence, fell into place; two hundred words in five seconds:

 _Those stalactite monsters from the sewers weren't normal. Something made them different. And the camp in the toxic sludge…that sludge was full of Benzaminite rich algae. Because its emissions shielded them from being detected, but only if there were enough pools of that algae in the city area that one wouldn't be suspected over another. They have a Benzaminite pollution problem. The only way to produce that much Benzaminite is as waste from mass yeosynthesis…so apparently mass yeosynthesis is possible, meaning my old modifications on Huxtable's equations are wrong somehow…Anyway, the Combine uses yeosynthesis to power their technology. So that's what Kleiner must have rewired the H.E.V. suit to do, so that I could leech off the Combine's power if needed. And that's why the Vortigaunt could provide power to my suit, because they're actually yeosynthetic beings! If my old equations are wrong, then that would mean Huxtable was_ right _when he predicted Benzaminite molecular inflation when introduced to nucleotides…how embarrassing for me. Those stalactite monsters…they were in the sewers…they had been sucking on leaking Benzaminite from somewhere, and it bloated their arteries…I had_ thought _they'd seemed rather docile. And they were. They were filled with toxins, and toxins continually on the brink of explosion…_

He juiced his H.E.V. suit with a Combine battery. He located the Benzaminite waste capsule inside of it. He ripped flesh from the burned corpse, and wrapped it around the capsule, and crushed it in his fist. He heard the glass crack within the meat, and the pressure building up instantaneously. He fed the awful packet into the metal tube -

\- and all the while Breen was declaring soberly, "…If you see this so-called Free Man, report him. Civic deeds do not go unrewarded, and contrariwise, complicity with his cause will not go unpunished…"

Freeman kicked open the door and threw the little cannibal Benzaminite pipe bomb over the guards' heads.

"Be wise," Breen said.

The guards were panicking.

"Be safe."

Gordon shut the door behind him and plugged his ears.

"Be _aware_."

KABOOM.

* * *

The door was smacked inwards, cracking its hinges from the plaster and concrete. An immense air wave blew through and almost knocked the corpse from the chair, and filled Freeman's nostrils with acidic spice. The air was fogged with a pale yellow-green.

Freeman stepped back into the garage.

From where the pipe had landed, the immense pressure of the reaction had blown everything away from it at deadly accelerations. Everything in the room was now against the walls and painted yellow from Benzaminite saturation. This included the broken bodies of all seven Civil Protection officers.

Breen's voice was gone from the building. _The broadcast must be over,_ Gordon thought absently.

He returned to the computer terminal in the previous room, whistling _Rasputin_ to keep his mind clear and focused. But he could barely make heads or tails of the machine: all he recognized was an English keypad, which looked like it had been cannibalized from another computer and wired into the aliens'. He tried typing, but the screen flashed red and sounded displeased. He tried another key and got an even stronger reaction.

 _Well,_ Gordon thought, _guess I'm not getting citadel intel._

A textbox appeared on the screen, with a little beep. Gordon was startled.

In large English letters, it displayed the words: _GORDON - DO NOT CONTINUE, they sent a squad of nine to engage you. -Alyx_

Gordon was thunderstruck for a few moments. In those few moments, more text appeared: _P.S. hope you see this, I only sent it to the terminal by the entrance you said you'd take._

Gordon tried typing, and it worked this time, his words appearing in the chat box. _Thanks. I think already took care of the squad._

A few moments passed.

 _I'm actually not surprised,_ Alyx typed.

Gordon replied, _How are you holding up? Also, how are you doing this?_

 _I'm good. My team is still outside distracting them. I went ahead inside and took out a transhuman officer - used their headset to snoop on them all. That's how I knew they were coming for you. And I also started hacking into the mainframe. I actually think there are some files on the citadel here. But a tiny probl-_

The text halted for half a minute.

 _There's a chopper; I'm in a control tower- -sending map now_

Schematics of the complex appeared, with a red "A" and "F" appearing in their general locations.

 _Help wld b appreciatd; bring grenads_

* * *

Gordon could hear the beating of iron wings -

And as he approached, the guns thundered louder and louder - bangbangbang … BangBangBang … BAngBAngBAngBAng -

He met two guards on route: one had their helmet on, and Gordon had to duck behind a corner. It was a whole ninety seconds before Gordon caught him off guard and riddled him with the machine gun. As he did, he noticed from the corner of his eye a half unsuited officer standing with his arms raised, backing down a nearby hallway. His helmet was off, he was bald, but had some scruff on his chin and looked no older than nineteen. Gordon let him go.

He went through a metal door - he was outside, in a concrete pit, a stairway leading up towards the surface and the night, now alive with the blazing beams of two skylights. Gordon began ascending it, when a guard appeared at the top -.

This one was different. The uniform was not Civil Protection, but a darker color, and clearly better made. It padded their whole body. The gas mask looked like a tighter fit, and the goggles glowed deep fluorescent blue, like a fruit fly.

Both fired their machine guns, Gordon being the faster draw. He heard a bullet whizz past his ear, and felt several ring vainly against his recharged H.E.V. suit. He watched several of his bullets pierce into the guard's vesting, and they stumbled back, but did not fall. Gordon retreated behind the door for shelter, and heard the bullets rain against it for a few moments. Silence - Gordon kicked open the door and opened fire again, catching the guard by surprise. They finally went down.

 _Tenacious buggers, aren't they?_ he thought, as he ran up the stairs. Now he was in a giant industrial yard, scattered with piles of gravel and metal storage tanks and chain-link fences. The whole place was lit up like a baseball field, Overwatch officers in black armor and blue glowing eyes were scattered throughout, as though searching for someone. Several were already zeroing in on Gordon's location, alerted by the gunfire.

Gordon could hear the thumping of the chopper, but he couldn't see it yet -.

He saw the control tower to the south. He began running.

 _"- copy that, I've spotted him -"_

 _"- what? It's Freeman! It's the Freeman! -"_

 _"- alert the chopper -"_

 _"- we have visuals on Gordon Freeman, heading south down Yard C -"_

 _"- engaging -!"_

BANG. BANG-BANG.

 _"- Roderick -? Come in, Roderick? -"_

 _"- Something's wrong -"_

 _"- We have him surrounded -"_

BANGBANGBANGBANG

 _"- do not engage! I repeat, do not engage! -"_

 _"- Let the chopper handle it! For the love of -"_

 _"- Roderick? Do you copy? -"_

 _"- Cameron? Cameron, do you copy? -"_

 _"- Roderick is dead, I repeat, Roderick is dead. All Beta team units regroup at sector -"_

BANG BANG.

 _"- Where is that -"_ BANGBANGBANG _"- chopper?! -"_

The beating of iron wings: Gordon saw the belly of the chopper lit up by the skylights. The guns flashed orange and white - _wumwumwumwumwum_ …

...BANGBANGBANGBANGbANGBaNGBANGBANgBANGBANGBaNgBANGBaNGBANGABAnG

Freeman dove behind a storage unit: several of the chopper's rounds penetrated through it and pulverized the concrete ground nearby.

 _Twenty second recharge_ , Gordon thought. He sprinted the last ten yards to the tower, and scrambled up the ladder, the tower between him and the chopper. As he did so, he noticed two Overwatch guards were bleeding out on the ground beneath it…

The chopper swung around the building, as Gordon neared the top - _wumwumwumwumwumwum_ -

\- BANGBANGBANGBANGbANGBaNGBANGBANgBANGBANGBaNgBANGBaNGBANGABAnG -

The side of the tower was riddled with dents; a whole section of metal ladder was wiped off from it. Chunks of cement fell and smashed on the ground below.

But Freeman had made it. He lay on his back in the top of the tower, pulled in at the last moment by -

"Alyx," Gordon gasped.

She stood overtop him, smiling that same wide smile she had when he first met her in City 17.

* * *

"So here's our predicament," Alyx explained, as Gordon took in his new surroundings. It was a little box with large windows and lots of buttons and dials on various dashboards. Except the windows were utterly shattered, the glass nearly carpeting the floor, and the dashboards were not faring much better. Alyx had dissembled the bottom of all the dashboards, laying the covers on the floor to protect from the glass, and exposing a host of wires and microchips to view.

"The chopper knows that I'm up here. They sent some guards up the ladder to get me, but my position is very defensible."

"I noticed the bodies down there."

"Right. Now, Gorbachev has contact with me via earpiece," and she gestured to a black ball in her left ear. "He's listening in right now, actually - he says hello - anyway, they can give us cover to get us out of here, but only if the chopper is down. Did you bring the grenades?"

"I did."

Alyx grinned again. "I heard you took down a chopper at Black Mesa."

"It was a different model," Gordon said, "and I was using a rocket launcher, but yeah. That happened. I'll try again for you."

"Would you? I'm almost done with this data transfer on the citadel. I hope it was worth it."

"Do you know where the headcrab rockets are? Was I correct?"

"You were. They are in Yard B. Now, it's your call, but I'd say we retreat and take on those another time -"

"Where's Yard B?"

"To your left. Past the red painted wall."

\- BANGBANGBANGBANGbANGBaNGBANGBANgBANGBANGBaNgBANGBaNGBANGABAnG -

Bullets rained through the empty window frames; Freeman and Alyx kept beneath the cover of the dashboards, the angle protecting them as the bullets ripped into the opposite side. It protected them…for now.

Alyx pulled out her gun: a sub-machine gun like Gordon's, but with some additions.

"Grenade launcher," she said, grinning a little too happily. "Did you have a plan for damaging Yard B, too?"

"I think so," Gordon said. "But I need you to try launching something very strange."

Alyx gave him an odd look. "Okay -? Oh crap, move, move! Other side!"

\- BANGBANGBANGBANGbANGBaNGBANGBANgBANGBANGBaNgBANGBaNGBANGABAnG -

"How much ammunition do those helicopters have?" Gordon asked.

"We've fought them before. The Combine packs those things with enough bullets to keep shooting for hours."

"I assume we don't have hours?"

"I reckon we've got another five or six minutes before it finally starts ripping through the concrete and dashboards. But I'm being optimistic."

\- BANGBANGBANGBANGbANGBaNGBANGBANgBANGBANGBaNgBANGBaNGBANGABAnG -

"You wanted to launch something?" Alyx continued.

Gordon nodded, and from his makeshift holster-pack, he pulled out a used Benzaminite battery and a small cloth bundle cursed with the smell of burnt flesh. Alyx's eyes widened. "Uh…Gordon…?"

He was already dissembling one of the grenade canisters. He had done it once before, when making the laser tripwire trap in Black Mesa. He carefully but quickly unpackaged the slab of meat into the emptied canister, and used the cloth to cover the battery. He then wrapped the battery in the meat, and -

"Move!"

\- BANGBANGBANGBANGbANGBaNGBANGBANgBANGBANGBaNgBANGBaNGBANGABAnG -

"Gordon…what are you doing?"

Gordon did not answer until his little bomb was complete. In the meantime, he handed a regular grenade to Alyx. She raised an eyebrow, but took it, loaded it, and aimed -

\- schoomp! -

…

KABANG.

It was caught by the top propeller, knocking it off balance for a moment, but it kept spinning, sawing through the smoke - _wumwumwumwumwumwum -_

\- BANGBANGBANGBANGbANGBaNGBANGBANgBANGBANGBaNgBANGBaNGBANGABAnG -

A few bullets penetrated through, nearly shattering Gordon's bomb. His heart leapt to his throat.

Alyx took aim - schoomp! -

KABANG.

It was caught in the propeller again. The force made a few small cracks in the cockpit window. Alyx fired the machine gun, raining lead on the strained glass, exacerbating it, forcing the helicopter to maneuver away.

"Force it towards Yard C!" Gordon shouted.

It was swinging around, hovering over the yard, out of bullet range -

"Fire this at it." Gordon said, handing her the bomb.

"It's out of range!"

"Trust me."

There was a moment that they looked at each other. It was such a cliché thing to say. But she took the bomb anyway -

The helicopter was charging up…

\- schoomp! -

\- _wumwumwumwumwumwumwumwum_ -

The bomb almost reached it, but the chopper moved out of the way just in time. It went careening towards Yard C -

The chopper fired - BANGBANGBA -

KAABBOOMM.

A force of compressed air flung the chopper into the sky; it capsized midair, and caterwauled down like a clipped duck, crashing into the storage crates, the launch pads, the industrial wares of Yard C, as Gordon's bomb blasted a good quarter of it.

Alyx blinked.

She looked down at Gordon, grinning again.

He gave her a dry thumbs up. "Thanks for believing in me and stuff."

* * *

 **End Notes**

 **First of all, I changed the title of the whole story from "Half-Life" to "The Remarkable Schrodinger Man", to better reflect the fact that this is not even really a novelization so much as a reimagining or retelling. That especially shows in this chapter, where Gordon contacts Alyx Vance, who is coming to get him on route, and much of the action from the original video game is skipped or altered.**

 **I plan for this entire fic to run through all the chapters in the original Half-Life 2 game (before the episodes), with the intention of it being a coherent whole that follows an arc in Freeman's development, as fed and guided by his relationships with the G-man and with Alyx Vance.**

 **I am especially curious what people think of the story as a whole so far, or with individual its elements in this chapter (or others). I'm worried that the whole makeshift bomb thing was a little much - it's meant to show that Gordon really is very, very smart in a useful way, and his PhD in physics, combined with first-hand experience of weird physics and Xen, actually plays a role in his success. But I don't know for sure if it's coming off that way.**

 **Thank you for reading! Next time will be a chapter I've looked forward to since I began writing this: character development at Black Mesa East!**

 **Cheers!**


	6. Black Mesa East, pt 1

**I feel that the needs of the story call for quite a bit to happen during Gordon's rest at Black Mesa East. Too much for a single chapter, anyway. Also, I saw how much people were enjoying the story and hungry for more, and I decided it was far better to give you guys part one of the chapter, rather than to make you wait another couple months while I work out the second half.**

 **The support and reviews have been wonderful. Thank you so, so much for the feedback! I really appreciate it, and I'm very glad you guys have really been liking the story! I've worked very hard on it, as the time between uploads indicates. Sorry for the long gap between chapters - though that is probably how it will be for the rest of the story's run. I will try to limit the length of the gaps to only a few months at most, so don't worry that I've gone AWOL if it takes that long. I am going for quality. This chapter was especially hard because I wanted to get the character development right. I had a lot of false starts as I worked out how I actually wanted it to read. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Like, I really hope so! But either way, let me know what you think!**

 **Oh, and yes, there is a reference to "The Prestige". But it was so perfect for the themes of the story that I had to steal it. So, citation, or whatever.**

* * *

Black Mesa East

(Part One)

On May 5th, 2009, Dr. Gordon Freeman entered Administrator Breen's office at Black Mesa.

"Ah, Dr. Freeman - Have a seat; I'll be with you shortly."

Dr. Gordon Freeman was two months on the job at Black Mesa. Administrator Wallace Breen had called him into his office early Tuesday morning, before any scheduled tests in the Anomalous Materials labs. Freeman had only been in Breen's office once before: when he first arrived at Black Mesa, Breen had wished to interview him personally.

His hair was still brown and vital then, and his whole complexion full of well-controlled vibrancy. He was professional but personable, with a firm yet unthreatening handshake, and a smile that set even Gordon Freeman at ease. In fact, it was that first interview that convinced Freeman that he might actually be happy at Black Mesa; at least that his fears of a tyrannical, or incompetent, or insufferable boss would not be realized. Breen was not a picture-perfect man with sparkling teeth and perfect manners. He was something _better_. He seemed to be a _whole_ man, a personality that had worked itself out entirely, in Biblical fear and trembling.

What's more, Gordon had reviewed Breen's non-confidential contributions to science: though he focused in theoretical physics, his ambition and eye for fundamentals gave his work a remarkably wide scope of influence: entanglement theory, new quantum electrodynamics, supraquadratics, superstring and M-theory, micro-neurology, radiology, reproductive biochemistry, and masked integer theory in mathematics. He could have become a high-profile advocate for science, a step above Carl Sagan. He could have been a science rock star. But after a single widely read interview with _Popular Mechanics_ \- the cover bearing his confident smile - he more-or-less disappeared, to work under the confidentiality of Black Mesa. And for that, Gordon Freeman felt a natural and deep respect for him.

Now Gordon was in this man's office again. He had a suspicion why.

As instructed, he took a seat. The office was somehow both clean and cluttered at once. The desk was not just for show: it was covered with Breen's daily work. Books, paperwork, calculations, logistical sheets - Gordon noticed a thin book was already open on the desk. Its bookmark was a slightly crumpled check, made out to Wallace Breen from Black Mesa. It was from two pay periods ago.

Then, with a heart-skip, Gordon realized the book itself was a copy of his own dissertation. It was heavily marked and annotated with highlighter and pen.

Breen was standing near a window in his office, overlooking the building's lobby. He was deep in thought. Gordon knew the feeling.

Finally Breen turned and smiled at Gordon. His eyes crinkled in an almost grandfatherly way. "I've been reading your dissertation," he said.

"I noticed."

"I had already read it, of course, before approving you for hire. But even on a second and third read through, I find new insights. You are a _dense_ thinker."

"Thank you, doctor."

"Call me Wallace."

"Alright, Wallace."

Dr. Breen guffawed. He had athletic lungs, like Gordon; his voice was resonant. He sat down opposite Gordon and set the dissertation (and paycheck bookmark) aside. "Most of Black Mesa is abuzz about your teleportation experiment. You've made history. Obviously, it will take a while before the rest of the world knows it, classification and all that, but you're as good as famous."

Gordon's eyes were bright, and his head grew lighter. "Thank you, doctor."

"No need to thank me, you're the one who did it. Not just experimentation, but a _demonstration_. Not just theory, but _activity_. You have no idea how bankrupt the sciences are of _strong_ thinkers. Or maybe you do. You were at Innsbruck, after all..."

Gordon nodded. He did know what Breen was talking about.

"Newton - now _there_ was a thinker. One man revolutionized the world, and how everyone saw it. How we all _use_ the world. There would be no cars without Newton: they wouldn't have the theory, for one thing, but I think more importantly: they wouldn't have the _mindset_. They wouldn't be able to see the world rightly. All it took was one man, and all of humanity could…'evolve'? Is that too romantic a word? It makes me sound like some sort of mad scientist…"

"I know what you're saying," Gordon assured him.

"Of course you do," Breen agreed, with a smile. "Well, I'll just say what's on my mind. Newton evolved the human race. How else could one look at it? He changed everything. Without him, no cars, no airplanes, no globalization, which means there is no infinite sharing of information between groups…this planet is more connected than ever before in our history as a species. I can catch a flight to Africa; I can visit the Bushmen there. I can scout out every secret tribe in the amazon, given a decent supply of resources. No one is alone anymore, everyone is connected. Everyone has to deal with everyone else."

Gordon gave no reaction. He had noticed that Breen sometimes struggled to stay on one topic, unless he had written things out beforehand. "We are a single planet," he continued, "whether we like it or not. And how did this happen? A long string of individuals, leading humanity along: Einstein could not exist without Newton before him. 'Standing on the shoulders of giants,' as it were. Leap by leap, we disintegrate superstition and nonsense in ourselves. We get closer to _reality_. How? Because, more and more, we can communicate with each other; we root each other's superstition out. We are becoming a united species. We are becoming more than we ever could be before. I'm getting all idealistic and speculative, obviously, but your experiments got me thinking, Gordon. Please pardon a fellow like me; sometimes I need a few moments to play the romantic instead of the scientist. Does any of this make sense?"

"I think so," Gordon answered tentatively. His appreciativeness had simmered back down to calculation. Breen was looking intently at Gordon. Then he smiled.

"You're on the precipice of history Gordon. Cold, strong winds are blowing up from the abyss. But I think, if we play our cards right, we might be able to fly."

Gordon was silent for a minute. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

Breen guffawed again. "Ah, Gordon, your honesty is just…ah, that's your problem right there. When your boss hauls you into his office and just starts making conversation, you're not supposed to ask him _why_. You just ask for a raise while he's in a good mood. But you know, that's why I like you. You don't care about rules; it's like you don't even know what they are. You just do what _you_ know is right, no matter what it is…Well, anyway, I just wanted to talk a bit. Maybe I just wanted to talk _at_ you! Bounce my ideas off. See if we really understand each other like I suspected."

 _This is important,_ Gordon thought. _What is he getting at? What's going on…?_

"Alright, alright," Breen said, laughing again. "We'll get to business then. You had given a request for more element and material - it's granted. And there's a sizable chunk that I would like to see you work on - give you the opportunity to push your first rock under the spectrometer, eh?"

And then the Resonance Cascade - and the bloodshed - the screams and crimped hearts - Freeman burst through the doors of the train station and saw the great citadel invading the clouds, and Breen's reassuring face shining out from every telecast - evolution, evolution, evolution - then it began making all too much sense -

* * *

December 12th, 2025:

It was three days since they raided the Combine base and stole the data.

They came, they saw, they conquered; they escaped into the wasteland.

They now needed to throw the Combine off any trace of their scent, so they were hiding in an underground bunker, one of several scattered about the landscape as alternate safe houses for the Underground Railroad. After a few days, Alyx had said, they would return to Black Mesa East, where they could begin sorting through and decoding what she had obtained. Meanwhile, the headcrab yard lay in flames; they could still see the black smoke trail, like a long coffee stain on the sky.

 _Take that, Breen,_ Gordon had thought, sardonic.

Now, three days later, he was sitting on a knoll above the bunker, his back against a scraggly, barren oak tree, one of many across the brambly moor. It was sunrise, and very cold. Gordon had long since removed his hazard suit, and was wearing new clothing provided by Alyx's team: gray and brown jackets and sweaters and pants, all of heavy material to ward off the cold. They also padded all his many bullet bruises, which had finally begun aching in earnest. It was very distracting, and he could barely grip anything anymore with his sore hands. He rubbed his quaking gloved hands together for warmth. The throb intensified all through his forearms, making him wince and grind his teeth. He breathed on them quickly to help, and set them back down. He watched his breath freeze, coiling away from him like little ghosts.

The sun was blinking through some trees on the horizon. It would be a clear day.

Then he noticed something odd: a black speck in the sky. It nearly scared him to death - it looked like a flying droid from the Combine. But no; in a few moments he made out the shape of wings, the trace of feathers; it was a lone hawk, skating on the frozen blue.

It was getting closer - it was steering right for him, in fact -

It swooped and landed on one of the branches above Gordon. The two earthlings regarded each other, curious. To Gordon's surprise, the hawk began making its way down the tree, hopping from branch to branch, until finally it fluttered to the ground next to him. Gordon remained still; he had a pistol and knife hidden in his jacket, if anything went south. The hawk was colored much like Gordon's clothing: brown and gray, peppered with orange and white, which gave its plumage artistry, though the individual feathers seemed a little haggard and unkempt. The hawk's yellow, scaly legs planted awkwardly on the grass. It regarded Gordon with glassy eyes: perfect marbles, set in sharp, angry brows. But its manner did not seem to reflect its expression. It was very friendly with Gordon, as though it had been a park pigeon.

Gordon stared back into its eyes. He could think of nothing else to do.

"Made a friend?" came Alyx's voice from behind. She had emerged from the bunker to find him.

"Is it trained?" Gordon asked.

"Nope. Just docile. We feed them, and most other Earth animal that comes our way. There aren't…a lot of them left."

Alyx approached and threw a dead mouse to it. The hawk seized it in its beak and went to work. Alyx sat down next to Gordon, and they watched it feed.

Alyx continued, "This hawk is probably second or even third generation from when the Combine arrived. And animals are smarter than we think, at least when it comes to long-term survival. After a decade, most predators got the picture: they know we've got food."

Gordon nodded. "Where'd you get that mouse?"

"Don't know how to tell you this, Gordon, but these bunkers aren't actually five star hotels."

Silence. The breeze was frigid.

"Want any water?" Alyx asked, reaching for a canister at her side.

"I'm good," Gordon said.

"Drink water."

"No. Later."

Alyx smiled. "I swear I didn't put anything in that first drink we gave you."

"I slept for twenty-four hours straight, once we reached this bunker. And it was right after I drank the water."

"It was only eighteen hours, and you've been sleep deprived. Nothing was in the water, Gordon."

"I didn't have nightmares, or dreams at all, which isn't normal for me -"

"Neither is sleep deprivation. Now drink, please."

"Fine, but only because you asked nicely."

He reached up for the bottle, but couldn't keep hold of it. So, although Alyx still let him hold his hands around it, she bore the full weight of the bottle, bringing it up to his mouth. Gordon felt an instinctive pang of self-loathing at this, but was distracted by the water - it was like ice sliding down his throat. It almost hurt his stomach, but instantly refreshed him.

Alyx was saying, "And I'll get Thelma to make you some more of that mushroom soup you liked."

"That stuff is ambrosia," Gordon said, handing her back the canister, only for her to make him drink again.

"That's because you're also _food_ deprived." Alyx explained. "In reality that soup is… _gross_."

"Fine, _don't_ let me compliment you people's cooking," Gordon said. Alyx laughed, and it made Gordon lose his train of thought.

She said lightly. "How's your math stuff going?"

Gordon had a flash back to the day before. One of the soldiers had asked Gordon what he was working on. It was like they had dropped an Alka-Seltzer into a Coke. After a few false starts and some encouragement, he had become a runaway train:

 _These are my modifications on Schrödinger's equations describing Y particles in three dimensions; non-relativistic and time-independent. Also, given the Z-position and Laplacian limit, obviously. Though I'm guessing you don't know what that is. That's fine, the point is_ _that a simple analytical approximation is found for the wave function of an electron when simultaneously exposed to, first, a strong, circularly polarized plane-wave field and second, an atomic Coulomb potential. The long and short of it is this: you can 'persuade' the wave functions to collapse in certain ways, given certain conditions. Though those conditions would require absurd quantities of energy…_

"I think," Alyx said, as she reached out to stroke the hawk's head, "that they understood about five of the words you used."

"How much did _you_ understand, though?" Gordon asked.

The hawk was nibbling Alyx's thumb affectionately with its beak. "I liked the part about 'persuading' quantum wave functions. That's radical thinking. But my Dad worked with you on this sort of stuff, so I have more background."

Gordon remembered something. "I'm sorry - I never asked how Eli is doing. Your father, Eli, I mean. Or really how _you're_ doing, in general. Because you're always asking me that, but I haven't asked you. I don't think of these things. I just assume people are fine so long as they look fine. So how are you? And your father? And sorry I haven't asked sooner."

Alyx patted Gordon on the shoulder. "There, there, it's okay."

"Wow, what an amazing therapist you are."

"I'd tell you to be selfish again, but I doubt you'll listen to me any better than before. Anyway, everyone is fine. Eli is fine…"

Silence.

"We're heading to Black Mesa East tomorrow," Alyx said.

Gordon nodded.

"I haven't pushed you to talk," Alyx said. "I wanted to let you rest out here. I know from Eli and Kleiner how little you like crowds, but the fact of the matter is: word is already out at Black Mesa East that the Free Man is back. That's what it sounds like over the radio. And since you've already done some damage on the Combine and saved people and what not, when you get there, you _will_ be famous, and you _will_ be swarmed."

Gordon nodded again, but said nothing.

Alyx blinked. "Will you be okay?"

"I don't really want to go, Mom."

Alyx smiled at the joke, though half-heartedly. "And what would you rather do instead?"

Gordon didn't answer. Alyx gave him a penetrating look.

"You don't want to stop," she said. "You're afraid to stop shooting and fighting. Like you've crossed a line, and don't feel you can go back."

Gordon looked at her, interested.

It was the first time she hadn't been completely right about him.

"I…well, sure…" he began, awkwardly, "that's part of it, at least. I don't know about the other part."

Alyx nodded, but she did not speak.

"Well, if you insist," Gordon said, harmlessly sarcastic, "I suppose I'll relent and still accompany you to Black Mesa East."

"Yeah, yeah," Alyx agreed quietly, looking nowhere in particular.

They were silent.

"I assume," Gordon offered, "that your team is under your orders not to swarm me while we're out here, though,"

"You assume correctly. They know who's in charge."

* * *

 _That's an interesting way to put it,_ Gordon thought. But it was quite accurate. She led a team of nine, not including herself. They all followed Alyx without question. Gordon sensed their mixture of love and fear towards her, and there was something mildly disconcerting about it.

Six men and three women, all able to speak English, but only Gordon, Alyx, and another young woman were American. This young woman's name was, "Laura Tanner, at your service, sir! And if I may be so bold, the highest honors accorded to you, sir! I never thought I would have this opportunity, sir, and I'll shut up soon, sir, but I…em…just very honored. Thank you, sir!" And she saluted him.

The second woman was French, as was her husband - Renee and Paul Clement - they were in their forties, and shared a sleeping bag out of habit, if not desire. "You bring us a…uh…ray of hope," Renee said, speaking for both of them. " _Merci docteur, merci._ Your sacrifice has saved this human race, and your modesty crowns it."

The third woman was Ukrainian, looked thirty, and kept to herself, except for the one time she spoke with Gordon, briefly but sincerely. "I wish you swift health, doctor, after your struggle. _Boh pochuv nashi molytvy._ "

Three men were German, all brothers, aged nineteen, twenty-one, and twenty-four. "I speak for us all," began the eldest, "Vhen I say, vell, you have made szis vorld possible for us. _Gnädigster Dank_."

A small but stocky man, built like a wolverine, aged 35, was evidently from Nepal, but got his unsightly facial scar in Germany, ten years ago, from Combine soldiers - "He doesn't like to talk about it," Alyx mentioned to Gordon one day. This fearsome little man could hardly get a thickly accented "thank-you" out before seizing Gordon in an embrace that nearly gave the doctor a heart attack. The man leaked tears down the front of Gordon's shirt. " _Sabai kurā aba ṭhīka hunēcha…Sabai kurā aba ṭhīka hunēcha…_ "

Finally, there was Adrien Gorbachev, a Russian, aged thirty-nine, who seemed to serve more-or-less as Alyx's right hand - he looked like a wolf and smelled a bit like one too. "I vwas skeptical," he said, "of zhe Wortigaunts' story, zhat zhey had joined our side because of you. Zhey alvways speak in riddles and nonsense. But now I see viz my own eyes. Dr. Freeman…" and he fell silent in contemplation.

"That's my name, yeah," Freeman had replied dryly.

* * *

"The Combine," Alyx had explained the day before, "has gradually moved the Earth's populations around, in order to quell rebellions by creating language barriers."

"So where are we right now?" Gordon asked.

"Southeast Romania," Alyx replied. "Which is why you won't find that many Romanians here anymore."

"How did Eli and Kleiner and all the rest of them end up here in Romania?" Gordon had asked Alyx. "Did they all get moved together?"

"No, but they did all get moved to Europe," Alyx said, laying a card down in their game of Shuttle. "It's actually a little complicated, I think it would be better that you just ask my dad yourself."

"Fair enough," Gordon replied. "But what exactly is Black Mesa East? There's no way they built something like Black Mesa over here?"

"No, no; but they did get in contact with several people who used to be in on the Russian military. And they were able to set up shop in an old, secret Soviet base, built underneath a power plant during the Cold War, when they occupied Romania."

The underground bunker included several options for entertainment: Chess, Monopoly, or Dominoes. There was also Alyx's pack of cards. But most importantly, the team had brought with them something of incredible importance to them, something unconsciously essential in the minds of Alyx and her crew, something Alyx had rebuilt from salvaged junk with her own two hands when she was only fifteen: a CD player and speakers.

It had one CD, a burned disc of classic rock. Freeman became quite familiar with its twenty-one tracks, and could even remember the names and bands for some of them. _Magic Carpet Ride,_ Steppenwolf; _Magic_ , Pilot; _Renegade,_ Styx; _Freebird_ , Lynyrd Skynyrd; _When the Levee Breaks,_ Led Zeppelin...They looped the songs all day long, kept on medium volume in a corner, where sometimes team members would go to listen more closely, while the others used it as background comfort. It was like salt to their meat; it was one of the first things they did upon reaching the bunker, and there was a noticeable relief of tension the moment track one began - the low whinny and whine of Steppenwolf's opening, which stooped into a deep thrum like the reeling axles of a drag-racecar, only to break suddenly, almost comically, like a curtain being drawn, revealing that boiling, leathery voice over a smooth funk backdrop -

 _I like to dream! Hm…yes, yes: right between my sound machine._

 _On a cloud of sound I drift in the night - any place it goes is right -_

 _Goes far, flies near, to the stars away from here…_

Alyx would stay by the speakers at least once a day, to listen through a full loop of the tracks. It took a little less than two hours. Gordon would sit next to her on his sleeping bag and work on his math with aching hands.

* * *

The hawk finally realized that it wasn't getting any more food, and with a few flaps it soared away into the deep blue. Gordon and Alyx watched it curve into the sun and disappear in the glare.

"Alright, Eli _did_ lose his leg. And he gets pretty stressed being leader of this little rebellion thing, but otherwise he's fine."

Gordon blinked. "He lost a leg and he leads rebels."

"That's what I said."

"So he's basically a pirate now."

Alyx laughed very hard at that. Gordon wasn't sure how he did it to her.

"He's got a robotic leg," Alyx finally explained. Gordon afforded her a smile.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked quite suddenly, still smiling awkwardly.

Alyx gave him a confused look. "What?"

"I threw myself into a suicide mission instead of just waiting for you," Gordon explained. "I made everything needlessly complicated. And you told me you still have a temper. So are you secretly mad at me?"

"Did I…do something that seemed angry…?" Alyx asked, concerned.

"No, which doesn't make any sense to me…but I don't always read people well, but sometimes I do, I dunno. I figured I'd just ask."

Alyx raised an eyebrow. "The mission was a success, wasn't it?"

"You all could have gotten killed," Gordon said.

Alyx drew in a breath. "We didn't have to come help you; that's what you told us, remember?"

"I know, but…sorry, I just wanted to check."

"I'm not mad at you, Gordon," Alyx said, laughing. "You have no idea how _not_ mad at you I am."

Gordon forced a smile back."I think…maybe this is it…" he began carefully, "See, when I was a kid, like, maybe seven or eight, I got really interested in magic tricks."

Alyx's eyes widened and she grinned. "Really?"

"Yes," Gordon affirmed. "Card tricks, mind tricks, sleight of hand, making things disappear and reappear…I thought it was amazing and beautiful, how things would vanish and come back with a flourish of the hand. The laws of logic, cause and effect, were just broken, suspended - I swear this relates, just listen -"

"I'm listening, Gordon," Alyx assured him. "Don't worry about me."

"- So my Dad," Gordon continued, "being a good Dad, I think, more-or-less…well, he took me to a magic show in Seattle. And there was the magician up there doing his card tricks and getting members of the audience and pulling animals out of thin air…and there was this one trick he did, where he had this little downy brown wren, cheeping away. And he placed it in this little cage, and put a handkerchief on it, and slammed his hand down on top of it. Well, the handkerchief just dropped with his hand, as if the cage hadn't even been there. He pulls away the handkerchief and there's nothing there, nothing we can see, anyway. The cage and bird is all gone. And then, with a flourish of his hand, there is the wren again! Cheeping away in his hands…I was floored. I couldn't understand how he teleported that little wren from out of the cage into his hand like that. Maybe I just liked the animal -"

The hawk hopped onto Gordon's leg and let him stroke its feathers.

"- But you see, at the time I had a retainer, for dental work, right? And before the show there was this dinner, and I had left my retainer with the food, which happened a lot, actually. Anyway, it was a mess…we talked to the kitchen staff, they didn't have it…it culminated in my Dad and I looking in the alley trash. Because the retainer had been expensive and our medical coverage wasn't that great. The magic show, looking back on it, was actually all rather sketchy and cheap, but my Dad was doing the best he could. Well, anyway, that's when I saw how the magician had done his bird trick."

Gordon paused, looking the hawk in the eye.

"There was this collapsed bird cage in the trash, with this smashed, broken, bloody little brown wren caught inside of it. I put two and two together; the magician had used a collapsing cage, so when he smashed his hand down, it hadn't disappeared: it just went flat. He just collapsed it really quick. So quick, in fact, that he smashed the little bird too. Well, no matter, because he just had a _second_ little brown wren hidden up his sleeve, to make it look like the first one was okay.

"I didn't cry. And I never told my Dad what I saw. We found the retainer, somehow, and cleaned it with hot water and soap for a few hours…well, anyway, I ended up crying a few days later but wouldn't tell Mom and Dad what the matter was, I don't know why. Maybe because I didn't want to talk about it with them, I was afraid that they would try to justify it to me, and that was the last thing I wanted in the world. No one was going to tell me that it was acceptable for that little dumb animal to get killed for my entertainment.

"I felt betrayed, you know? Suddenly it wasn't magic, it was _lying_ , because behind the beautiful flourishes and wonderment was a dead, bloody, broken bird. There was no true leap in logic. Everything made sense in the end, and the way that it made sense was awful. So I guess that's why I became a physicist: to figure out how every magic trick in the universe is done. And I think that's why it matters so much that _you_ make sense to me. Or that Arlene…that _she_ make sense, too. _Everything_ makes sense in the end, whether we like how it does or not."

Alyx was respectfully silent. Gordon offered her a genuine smile. "So that's my deal, I guess."

"You're afraid my being nice to you has some dark side to it."

 _She's good._

"There ought to be a sufficient reason for it. That's all."

Alyx sighed, leaning her head back against the tree. "You must have hated those old Disney movies."

"Disney was the antichrist."

Alyx started laughing again.

"We're both _crazy_!" she was saying.

* * *

Black Mesa East: a complex of concrete buildings and black power lines and giant spiked transformers silhouetted against the purple-dusted dawn. It was built right on the bank of a dwindling river, about two hundred miles south of City 17. There was no sign of life; it was just another abandoned structure in the emptied landscape.

Alyx had grown exceptionally reticent.

This was a trait Gordon had not seen in her so far. But the closer they drew to Black Mesa East, the less she spoke, and the more her compatriots followed suite - not out of their own discomfort, Gordon observed carefully, but because they knew Alyx was…sad? Mad? _What is going on?_

They wove their way through the alleyways between buildings, before they finally reached a shallow tunnel hollowed into the rocky hillside, at the back of the complex. This led them into something like a metal antechamber -

\- as soon as they entered, a metal door shut tightly behind them. They were trapped inside. It was black as pitch…

…but some fluorescent back-up lights blinked on - giving the whole team ghoulish under-glows…

The team was perfectly calm. This is standard procedure.

"Hello?" said a woman's voice, over a scratchy intercom. "Is that you, Alyx?"

Alyx somewhat limply raised her hand.

"Ah yes; yes it is," the woman's voice continued. "You must forgive the scanning process, Alyx: we can't take any chances. You were out much longer than originally planned, I was getting worried that -"

The voice was drowned out by a steaming hiss: a white mist began to fill the room from several vents in the ceiling. It irritated Gordon's skin a little, and he began to feel claustrophobic.

"Wait…Gordon Freeman?" said the voice again. He jumped a little at hearing his name, having momentarily forgotten his fame. "Gordon Freeman? Is that you?" The voice was pleasantly incredulous, and sounded on the verge of showy laughter. "You've made it here! You've made it here safely - why, Eli will be so relieved…"

A long rectangular panel in the wall retracted. This revealed a window into an observation chamber. There were several people inside, all now gazing curiously through the thick, tinted glass. Foremost among them, Gordon made out a tall, thin, clean-cut Caucasian woman, gazing out at their party, and then directly at Gordon. She was the one speaking.

She placed her hand against the glass, as if signaling peace.

"Ehem…I'm Dr. Mossman, Dr. Judith Mossman," she said after a few moments of awkward silence.

A red laser grid turned on and began descending around the party as she spoke. "I've been hearing about you since long before the Black Mesa incident...I so envy you, getting to work with Eli and Dr. Kleiner when they were at the top of their field…Ah! There we go. You're clear to go through now."

Another set of doors opened like jaws, leading into the rest of the tunnel, lit with bright white fluorescent lights. Gordon was shuffled forward with Alyx's team as they stepped automatically into the space. Dr. Mossman exited a few moments later from a control door nearby. She was at least as tall as Gordon, with straight, mousy brown hair held back by a large plastic hair clip. Her nose was long, her mouth small, and her eyes seemed very alert and anxious. She wore a white, fraying turtleneck and dark green slacks. Gordon couldn't help but notice a certain innocent insincerity in her voice, like a bad actor unaware of their ineptitude.

"Alyx," she said warmly. Alyx responded by holding out her hand for shaking, but Mossman did not seem to see it, and went in for a sisterly hug. Alyx hesitated, but then acquiesced and returned the embrace. Mossman continued, "I'm so glad you're back safe. No one was telling me anything about your mission but now that I see Gordon…are you all alright? What happened to you?"

"Sorry," Alyx said blandly. "We'll talk later. We're tired, shaken up."

"Oh, of course," Mossman agreed. "I'll take you down to Eli right away - he would never forgive me if I kept you waiting." She chuckled awkwardly, and cast a glance at Gordon, who instinctively gave her a plastic smile that made him feel dishonest. Mossman didn't react to any of this, and moved to lead their stringy band down the hallway to a thick, code-locked door. She opened it and shuffled the team through, but held Gordon back by beginning to talk to him.

"We could certainly use the extra help around here," she said directly to Gordon. Her artificiality was off-putting, especially considering the circumstances of his arrival. It was like she didn't care what Gordon had just been through, but felt obliged to seem like she did, in order to gain his approval. Yet strangely enough, there was something Gordon appreciated about it, something almost familiar and refreshing. She was someone who got right to business, who didn't have time for emotional niceties, who likely did not understand them.

"We've covered a lot of ground in the last few months," she was saying, "but things would go so much faster if we had more people who had worked with…well, with you. Or at least with your level of training. Now we have even better than both."

They were approaching a grated elevator, where she began punching in on another keypad. Several rebel soldiers were stationed along their route, all staring with deep curiosity at Gordon Freeman, and beginning to whisper excitedly to each other. The members of Alyx's team began peeling off as well to join them, taking positions of authority in the secret conversations…"Yes, that's him, that's the one we told you about!"

Mossman seemed oblivious to it all. "You saw from a few days ago that we've finally closed in, through your original work, on a reliable, local teleport technology. What's remarkable is that the Combine still hasn't mastered it - Eli thinks their portals are string-based, similar to the Kolabier model, but they fail to factor in the dark energy equations like you and Kleiner were doing. So they can tunnel through from their universe, but once they're here, they're dependent on local transportation - if they knew what we were doing with entanglement -!"

The elevator arrived and the two doctors entered.

She was laughing again. "Listen to me, I sound like a post-doc, I - eh -" She looked Gordon in the eye. "I'm just so excited that we'll finally have the chance to work together."

The grated doors closed.

Suddenly, Gordon realized that Alyx was not in the elevator.

 _Where is she?_

There, there down the hallway, leaned up against the wall… _what is going on? Why isn't she with us? Is she staying with her team…?_

Too late - they were going down.

"- so Dr. Kleiner compressed the Xen relay, except far beyond anything he imagined at Black Mesa. We figured out how to use Xen as an unexpressed axis; effectively a dimensional slingshot so we can swing around the border world and come back in local space without having to pass through -"

They were going down levels; Gordon could see into each one. There was a Vortigaunt playing chess with a human…there were Vortigaunts in…chef hats? Chopping carrots? There were Vortigaunts summoning lightning…they were charging generators…

"Dr. Mossman -?" Gordon said, fitting in between a pause in her speech. She halted and cocked her head to listen. "Is Alyx not joining us?"

"Oh, Alyx? She gets claustrophobic," Dr. Mossman said with artificial breeziness. "She doesn't…like me questioning her. She's a free spirit, as I'm sure you noticed," she laughed, but Gordon's face remained stony. "I assume Eli will have a better idea - speaking of which, here he is now!"

The elevator slowed - and there, through its bars, was Dr. Eli Vance in the flesh.

* * *

Gordon remembered all the nights he had dinner with Eli and his wife Azian and their little daughter Alyx Vance -

\- _"Dr. Freeman, I presume?" Azian said cheerfully, opening the door to their on-base residence. "Come right in! Eli is just getting finishing with the vegetables. It is a pleasure to finally meet you; I've heard so much from Eli. All good, of course!"_

 _\- "Gordon! Come in!" Eli bellowed. "Glad you could make it again!"_

 _\- "Dr. Freeman! Right on time!" Azian laughed, because he was five minutes late. "Are you alright, doctor? You look a little tired…? Alyx is rather excited to see you but I can hold her at bay for you -"_

 _\- "Doctor Freeman!" squealed Alyx as she opened the door. She seized his hand and led him into the living room where she had created a pillow fort. "You need to help me fight the giant bugs! Giant mantises, giant mantissess…mantises Doctor Freeman! Blam, blam!"_

 _\- "Gordon! Come right in, come right in, we can take a look at those equations before dinner…"_

 _\- "Well, Dr. Freeman! I take it you were able to make it after all? Dr. Breen and Dr. Kleiner are already here; there's punch over there on the table, chips - no, Alyx don't do that you'll spill the dip -"_

There he was, there he was. He was wearing the same clothing when Gordon saw him over the video-call: a blue sweater vest covered by a green cargo vest. His hair was dark silver and gray, short and spongy. His skin was the color of well-watered earth. His nose was flat but prominent, and his eyes curious and crinkled. His left leg, at the knee, was replaced with a stripped but hardy prosthetic. He was an inch taller than Gordon, and broad shouldered.

Eli hadn't seen them yet. He was busy talking to a Vortigaunt, handing it some device and giving words of congratulations in his gravelly voice -

\- then he turned and saw Gordon, just as the elevator gates opened.

Mossman said: "Eli! Look what the cat brought in!"

There was Eli's smile, as warm as a spring sun.

"Gordon Freeman," he said, limping his way over to meet him. "Let me get a look at you, man!"

Gordon didn't respond for a moment. He needed something clever to say.

"Morning, Eli," he offered. "I'm back from sabbatical."

Score: that got a deep, long laugh out of Eli, and he embraced Gordon tightly.

They were in a spacious laboratory, at least thirty by thirty feet, and made of walls and arches of stone. The air was cold and earthy as a catacomb or a wine cellar. It was furnished with iron shelves and scaffoldings that supported various experimental apparatuses, rows of glass mason jars with alien organs, and a few corkboards covered with drawings and notes. Black tubes and thick gray cables hung from the high ceiling like jungle vines. A small desk in the corner had a few sheaves of paper in neat piles, and a framed but cracked photograph of Eli, Azian and Alyx.

The Vortigaunt shuffled off, after regarding Freeman with its horsefly eyes.

Eli held Gordon away from him now, looking intently at his face. "You really _haven't_ changed one iota…" he said, "…It is unbelievable having you back. Now, last time I saw you in person…that was at Black Mesa! Nearly score years ago…gad! Think about that! The Vortigaunts were right! I had my doubts but…well," Eli took Gordon under his wing, and gestured towards the whole room, "anyway, welcome to the lab! It's not Black Mesa, but it's served us well enough. Now, what do you need, Gordon? How are you holding up?"

Gordon couldn't speak. There was too much now, too much feeling. All he could say was -

\- But Mossman interrupted. "It's going to be a lot more like Black Mesa with Gordon around here to help," and she smiled at him.

"Right you are, Judith!" Eli agreed. "M.I.T. graduates are few and far between these days, heh; we'll get you out of those rags and back into your lab coat, where you belong!"

Gordon stared, almost uncomprehendingly. _Lab coat…?_

There was a crackling sound from somewhere in the lab. "Oh, that's right, I think that's from City 17," Eli said. Mossman went ahead of him and began adjusting dials on a television screen. Suddenly, there was Barney and Dr. Kleiner, peering through.

"- Lamar is _not_ inside the television; don't be absurd Barney! Oh _Gadfrey_ -! There, you see? It's working! Hello? Hello?"

"We are hearing you loud and clear, Dr. Kleiner," Mossman said.

"Gordon Freeman! Thank heavens you're alright!" Kleiner exclaimed. "Finally things can get back on track with your work -"

 _My work…_

"There he is!" shouted Barney, pushing Kleiner away from the screen. "Gordon! How are ya!? You're alive!"

"Barney, for heaven's sake," Kleiner was saying, readjusting his glasses.

"He's alive, Kleiner! He's alive! I've never been so happy to be wrong, Kleiner, come 'ere!"

"Oh heavens - Barney, please, I am too infirm for roughhousing…"

"Noogie!"

"Get _off_ of me, you savage!"

"Heh, they couldn't wait to see you," Eli was saying, "once they knew you were finally coming in today."

Gordon was nearly in tears, and he didn't understand why. Everything else was forgotten.

"Whoa, you alright, Gordon…?" Barney asked.

"Never been better," Gordon said, "My God, I've never been better…"

* * *

"This man," Barney said, pointing at an irritated Dr. Kleiner, "has refused to let me put down that little cretin that nearly got you killed."

"I have not found sufficient evidence that Lamar was actually responsible for the malfunction -"

"Right, besides the thing leapin' around inside of it."

"Correlation is not causation, Barney," Kleiner insisted. "In any case, killing Lamar would do nothing to help Gordon now. He's safe and sound -"

"Ah shut up, doc. I'm in too good a mood right now to care about it."

* * *

"Well thanks for asking, Gordon," Eli said appreciatively, patting his robotic leg, "but this thing doesn't cause me too much pain anymore. It just took me some tuning after the, uh, accident."

"I was there for it," Barney chimed in. "Trust me, you don't want to know the details. Let's just say: _never_ pass through antlion country this time of year."

* * *

"Here," Dr. Mossman offered, "I'll get you your lab coat right away, if you're so excited about it. Let me just finish some work in my office -"

But before she left, she turned to Gordon and said, with a real sincerity that surprised him, and a smile of actual warmth: "Dr. Freeman? It's been a real honor. I look forward to working together."

When she was gone, Eli immediately said, "You and Judith have never met - but she greatly admired your work in teleportation, as did everyone else at Black Mesa!"

"Yeah," Barney added, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Let me know when the wedding is."

Gordon noticed everything in conversations, out of habit, even if he didn't know what to do with the information. And one thing he noticed was a bit of _flush_ in Eli's face.

"Hm, yes, hilarious joke, Barney," Dr. Kleiner reproved dryly, "but we already told Gordon about the citadel's radiation effects on reproductive hormones -"

"Oh shoot, that's right." Barney's tone was utterly dry and bored. "Stupid me, right?"

* * *

"Eli, where is Alyx?" Gordon asked.

He caught everyone exchanging odd looks, just for a half-second.

"Ah," Eli began. "She told me she may slip back outside after she dropped you off so that she could go looking for junk and scrap in the countryside. She doesn't like it much inside. But she should be back in a few days. And she already gave us the data you two stole from the Combine base. That was some daring work, Gordon."

"It was terrifying. But you said she'd be back in a few days?"

"You can never really tell with Alyx, she's grown into quite the free spirit - as I'm sure _you_ could tell!"

Gordon was not convinced by the answer, but he did not pursue the issue. _I don't have time to worry too much about it; she knows what she's doing…_

* * *

"We've got to call it quits, Gordon," Barney said. "We can't keep broadcasting like this for too long. Civil Protection's been cracking down like you wouldn't believe. I've nearly lost all the trust I've been buildin' up with these guys. But hey, if you ever want to talk again," and Barney said this with renewed emphasis, "procedure's in the manual for you - on the desk right beneath the television, right Eli? Yeah, so, you're a genius, you'll figure the rest out. See ya around."

The television was off, Mossman was gone - it was just Gordon and Eli.

"It's just _surreal_ seeing you again Gordon," Eli said.

Gordon smiled.

And that was all there was to say. Gordon had no words; only feeling, and the crude instruments of facial expression, of language, even of art or poetry - all were too clumsy to convey it. It seemed to Freeman that there was not enough elegance in the human body or mind to handle what he was feeling, to outline the billion, billion nooks of his heart's cliff side. To say something - other than merely utilitarian phrases - he would be recreating the Mandelbrot set on a postcard with a crayon. And what was worst about it was that people would assume he had done a fine job, that he had accurately represented it, that they were indeed viewing the Mandelbrot set, and were entitled to say, "well, that's a very nice little scribble" or "I think I've felt that way before, too"; it would amount to deception, even blasphemy against these emotions that had chosen to nest in his soul. No, he couldn't do that. His tongue would not let him attempt it. And it never really had -

\- except with Alyx.

Why Alyx?

Because, somehow, she had seen Mandelbrot's work too. Somehow she kept guessing right what he was drawing - she _recognized_ it, even when he had to do it in crayon on a postcard. And because she recognized it, he knew that she could appreciate the fullness of the feeling for herself. There was no deception involved. He could trust her to understand.

But why did she understand? How?

What was the magic trick?

* * *

Mossman came back with a lab coat. It was perfect, because it was a little too big, and Gordon liked his clothes comfortable and baggy.

They asked him if he would like to go to his room - he said no; he had never felt better, and he wanted to learn.

So Gordon learned that Black Mesa East had seven levels.

One: the surface level, where Gordon and Alyx came in.

"That's where we maintain our façade," Eli explained, "and keep constant watch for Combine attacks. It is our first defense. Judith is kind enough to help out up there."

"It's quiet, by necessity," Mossman said. "I can work on my equations." And she gave Eli a very warm smile.

Two: a kind of atrium level, or "moat" for their fortress. "If an attack does happen, we lock that place down _tight_ ," Eli said, clenching his fist in demonstration. "But in the meantime, it works for storing scrap metal, and for testing equipment and weaponry. Alyx practically has her own workshop up there!"

"Is that where she is?" But Eli never happened to answer.

Three: cafeteria and recreation. "The base's population cycles through two rationed meals a day. Though you're the man of honor, Gordon, so you can eat whenever you like -"

"No thank you. I'll do the cycles."

"- suit yourself. We do reeducation there too. Heaven knows, our newcomers often need it."

"Breen's done an incredible job with propaganda," Mossman whispered to Gordon. "He changes just the slightest details in the facts, but it's all the details that matter most."

"What are you two whispering about?" Eli called over his shoulder.

Four: food production and storage, "Of, namely, mushrooms and funguses," Mossman said authoritatively, "as well as genetically modified cavern pygmy milk goats, some artificially bred subterranean potatoes and turnips, a small ecosystem of plankton, shrimp and bivalves, all maintained by the Vortigaunts, by the way. Oh, and of course," and Mossman laughed to herself, "a dozen chicken uteri and ovaries that the Vortigaunts have kept animated. They produce eggs for their poor starving humans. They unveiled it to Eli and I as a surprise gift last year, though I think they were confused about the rituals involved in gift-giving. They kept saying 'April Fools' while they demonstrated it, and said Vladimir Lenin brought it to us, because we've been very good this year. They are the strangest beings, ha, ha!"

Eli, oddly nonplussed by Mossman's candor, added, "If you ever want to try any of the above, just go ahead and ask them -"

"I told you I'll do the ration cycles."

"They'll figure out who you are -"

"I know. I'll be fine. Everything is fine now."

Five: power generation, where "The Vortigaunts send a bioelectrical charge through the refurbished generators. It works like a charm!"

Six: laboratories and sleeping quarters, "Where we are right now, obviously. Sleeping is also on rotations, so that we can accommodate everyone -"

"How many?"

"We keep it around one thousand. We congregate the most skilled people here; but we have other posts and quarters throughout Romania."

Seven: waste management. "There's a type of Xen worm that got dropped on Earth during the portal storms, when the Combine first arrived. We think it's some sort of parasite, because it needs its food predigested. Anyway, we figured out that we could cultivate them in subterranean conditions, and just reroute the plumbing to dump everything in their nests. They take care of the rest."

"It was Eli's idea," Mossman said, her voice dripping almost comically with admiration.

* * *

Their short term goal: to build a reliable teleporter. Their long term goal: to mass produce reliable teleporters.

"The primary advantage of the Combine," Mossman was explaining to Gordon, as she gave him a more in depth tour of the lab, "does not lie in their technology. Actually, they seem to rely on our technology to a remarkable degree. They did not come with as much supplies as one would think - they've had to salvage things from humanity. And yet they maintain an iron grip on the entire planet. Why?

"Because the first thing they did, when their resources were fresh, was to divide up all the populations and rearrange them. And they continued rearranging them - forcing people to move to a different city every year or so. They control all transportation, and they use it to starve humanity of the infrastructure needed to establish _organizations_. No one knows each other in the cities; everyone is a stranger, speaking a different language."

"It was Breen's idea," Eli added, with uncharacteristic contempt in his voice. "He engineered Babel."

Mossman moved on. "That means that any large scale, coordinated group effort has been made impossible. Communication is interrupted by virtue of unfamiliarity. It was only when Eli and I…" Mossman paused. "…and Kleiner and others and so forth…it was only when we had managed to escape the cities that any of this became possible." She gestured around herself at the laboratory. "Group action is one of humanity's greatest advantages - we're like ants in that way. But the Combine keep mixing and matching ants to colonies, making such group action impossible - not because there aren't enough humans, but because none of the humans know each other well enough or have enough time with each other to establish the bonds and coordination needed to _do_ anything meaningful. They have alienated everyone from each other."

"And as you saw," Eli added again, "they do not take well to people trying to escape."

"That's why," Mossman resumed, "we need teleporters. It would allow us to take back control of transportation, to move people on our own terms…"

"To reunite families," Eli said. His eyes were shining, and he looked down with sadness.

 _That's why they halted sex,_ Gordon thought. _Or at least a part of it. It messes with people's ability to connect with each other…it removes the most powerful kinds of bonds humans can make…_

He was so deep in thought that he almost didn't notice how Mossman rubbed Eli's arm, almost mechanically, to comfort him.

"But now," Eli said, "we have you. We have Gordon Freeman, the master of teleportation…finally, we might stand a chance in getting this thing working perfectly, and maybe in making more."

* * *

Freeman managed to keep his identity concealed from the general populace of Black Mesa East - for about two days.

His exposure happened something like this.

Three workers in the base who shared the same food rotation would often meet for their midday rations at the same table on level three. They were all English speakers, something that drew them together, though it was one of few things they actually shared in common. An American, an Irishwoman, and an Australian; fifty-five, forty, and twenty-three; black, white, and mixed; married with children, widowed without them, single. Their names were Richard, Katerina and Noah.

"So," Noah offered, "have you heard the rumors about the Free Man?"

"Yes," Katerina answered immediately, "because no one will shut up about it."

"Jeez, alright."

"She's just grumpy 'cause she's hungry," Richard explained.

"I'm not talking about the Vortigaunts' prophecies or anything," Noah said, somewhat timidly. "I'm just talking about the rumors. And if you guys knew anything else about it."

"I'm afraid not," Richard concluded. But then he pointed down the table. " _He_ might know something though."

He was pointing at a man, sitting nearby but alone. He had gulped down his mushroom stew like it was chocolate milk, and was now just as wholeheartedly engaged with two or three pieces of scratch paper, on which he appeared to be crafting equations with a pencil. He had a stern Van Dyke beard, somewhat unkempt. His eyes were severely focused, and almost seemed to clash with the thick rims of his glasses. He was dressed in a plaid button-down and patched slacks, typical hand-me-downs that were salvaged for newcomers, but over this was draped, rather conspicuously, a white-grey lab coat that was clearly made for something far thicker than him. There were purple bruises splotching his arms, some swelling around his jaw, and other faded evidences that he had recently been in brutal circumstances.

"You mean the lad cosplaying as the Free Man?" Katerina groaned.

"Cosplaying?" Richard asked.

"Dressed up like a fictional character," Katerina said, noticing how Noah winced at the word 'fictional'. "It was after your generation. And in any case, can I just point out that by now the Free Man would be, like, fifty? Why is he always seen as twenty? And with that same beard and glasses?"

"It's just what the Vortigaunts say he looks like," Noah explained sincerely.

"Hey." Richard signaled for the odd man's attention, much to Katerina's dismay. "Haven't seen you around. You're new, yeah?"

The man looked up, and after a few awkward moments, nodded.

"When did you get in?"

"A few days ago," the man said politely, his voice a little hoarse.

Richard looked him up and down. "You, uh, look a little worse for wear."

The man didn't respond, but maintained a puzzled look on his face, as though Richard was somehow acting strange, and not the other way around.

"You ever heard about the Free Man?" Noah suggested, looking him up and down.

The man didn't change for a few moments. "Yeah."

Katerina stifled a snicker.

"Like, recently?" Richard continued. "I don't know if you heard our conversation - we're just curious about some rumors about him around here. Like, that he's finally come back. Not that I believe them, but some serious damage was done in the region recently, and people keep saying it wasn't Alyx Vance -"

"Who _is_ the Free Man? I'm curious." the man asked.

They all gawked at him for a moment.

"Wait," Katerina objected. "Do you seriously not know you look like him?"

"Like who?"

"Like the Free Man! The beard, the glasses, the hairstyle…"

"A lot of people have beards and glasses, don't they? I'm just curious what you have in your mind."

Katerina started laughing, "I like this guy!"

"What are the rumors?" the odd man persisted, his expression still blank.

"The guy who was there when the alien portal first opened up," Noah answered readily. "Breen opened the portal to let the Combine come through to here. He had made a deal with them to take over the Earth and subject everyone to him! But the Freeman found out and tried to stop him. Freeman was a brilliant PhD in physics, and he had done incredible work with teleportation, he was the next Einstein! And so Breen -"

"Did you just say 'Freeman' instead of 'the Free Man?'" Katerina interjected. "'Freeman' wasn't his name, it's just a title. C'mon."

Noah pressed forward anyway, "- Breen got all these military marines together to stop Freeman from getting to the portal. And they slowed him down, but he and the other scientists fought their way to the portal, and Freeman leaped in after clocking Breen in the face; and after he did the Vortigaunts suddenly started helping us. His knowledge of portals and teleportation and physics helped him, plus his incredible willpower and love of humanity. And now he's working to defeat the Combine from the inside! And the Vortigaunts say he'll come back through the portal someday, to finish the job!"

The young man had grown more and more energetic as he told the story, like someone beginning with a walk, but then realizing that what they really want to do is run and sprint and even frolic.

But the man with the Van Dyke beard simply nodded, slowly. "Interesting," he said. His voice was wavering, as though whole volumes were on the tip of his tongue. But he did not give way: he returned to his math.

"So, like, have you heard anything?" Noah persisted.

The man set down his pencil and rubbed his eyes from beneath his glasses. "No," he said, returning once again to his math.

"What are you working on there," Katerina said sarcastically. Nevertheless, the man perked up at once.

"Do you _actually_ want to know?" he asked.

Katerina was taken aback. "Sure, why not?"

The man, whom we by now know was Gordon Freeman, deliberately took this permission at face value. It was like Katerina had dropped an Alka-Seltzer into a Coke.

"I'm calculating the free energies 'F' for 'U' gauge theories on the 'd' dimensional sphere of radius 'R'; because contrary to Richter's 1999 paper, I've found that the theory of free Maxwell action grants the exact result as a function of 'd'; it contains the term '7\frac{d-4}{2}\mathrm{log}R,' consistent with the lack of conformal invariance in dimensions other than 'XY', right here. So when the 'U' gauge theory is coupled to a sufficient number 'N' of massless four-component fermions, it acquires an interacting conformal phase, which in 'd\lt' describes the long distance behavior of the model (because the conformal phase can be studied using large 'N' methods); but the point is -"

By now the entire cafeteria, from the combined noise of Noah's sermon and Freeman's science, had fastened its attention upon their table. And what did they see and hear? A young man saying "Freeman", "Freeman"; and an older man speaking in equations, a man with glasses and a Van Dyke beard…

" _Free Man…_ " came a voice from behind.

Gordon started, instinctively, at the sound - the wet growl of something distinctly inhuman. He looked around the cafeteria, and finally noticed that everyone's attention was on him. He had been so absorbed in the equations, and in the opportunity to finally talk about his passion again, that he hadn't realized -

A Vortigaunt was approaching from behind.

" _Free Man…_ " it purred from its throat flaps, " _He is here…_ "

Freeman stood stock still, rejecting his instinct to beat the monstrosity's head in.

Then more began appearing, shuffling from the back kitchen. The humans stared at them, then back at Freeman, then back to them - their eyes grew wider, even the Irish lady's. Freeman's heart began beating faster.

 _Don't panic. Deep breaths,_ he thought. _You'll be fine. You can be fine. You knew this would happen, something like this, anyway. But you can deal with it. You are going to eat rations like everyone else. You are going to be like everyone else…_

"The Free Man has come!" declared the first Vortigaunt, for the entire crowd to hear. " _Guna gän ig meit_ …he has returned to us…"

The Vortigaunts began chanting, " _Gän ig meit…ig meit…ig meit…_ "

Gordon's fear turned, momentarily, to bafflement.

"Yes, I'm the Free Man," he said aloud, interrupting them. "Would you all like to hold a press conference?"

Everyone in the cafeteria was beginning to circle around Freeman, like rings of Saturn, buffeting each other to get closer, and asking questions and telling each other to shut up. Gordon felt his entire chest grow tight and fill with lumps, like a vacuum-sealed bag. His breath became short as they got closer and needled him with a thousand points of equally emphatic data. The noise, which was bearable in an environment where brute violence was encouraged, was now intolerable, precisely because he had to restrain his animal reaction: to silence the sources forever. He was on a fence between mass murder and ceasing to function - to balance between them, to struggle on in the grayscale, was excruciating.

 _This is…I'm not…not doing as well as I thought I would…_ He did not want to have to deal with it. _I'm…I cannot deal with this…I can't think…what's happening…?_ He was not anticipating such a strong reaction from himself, but he should have known better…Black Mesa had been different - he never had to answer anybody if he didn't want to -But now he had to - he had to -

He clamped his palms over his ears. His eyes squeezed shut until they forced tears out. His head dipped down into his chest, as he curled up, like a hermit crab, on top of the table.

His whole body was clenched so tight, he feared his tendons would snap.

His brain turned to raging static.

"Gordon…?"

"…Gordon…?"

"…Gordon…!"

It was Eli's voice, bellowing out over the confused and hushing crowd.

"Yes, Eli?" he wheezed, with sarcastic cordiality. He did not open his eyes. "I'd like to get off the ride now, please - thank you, goodbye."

* * *

Freeman did not insist on taking rations after that, nor did he continue forcing himself to sleep with everyone else, or do _anything_ with anybody else, except Mossman and Eli, when he worked in the lab with them, getting up to speed on their teleportation work. He took personal quarters, provided by Eli, and ate whenever he felt like it, and didn't speak unless he felt like it. It had been a long time since he had been quite this…difficult. University life, and life at Black Mesa especially, had allowed him to conceal his eccentricities.

And, he realized to his horror, running around shooting people had concealed it best of all, because no one was expected to be normal under those circumstances.

An old wound in him was roused up; he remembered the bitter poison he had grown so used to as a child -

That he was an exception.

That he was strange.

That his brain was wired "differently".

That he had to be accommodated.

That he was a burden.

That he was a _freak_.

What was Kant's old rule? "Do not live by any maxim you cannot will everyone else live by." Justice, fairness, equity. But Freeman's body, his nervous system, continually rebelled against what was rational and fair. It would not allow him to make do with the accommodations provided to everyone else. His nerves demanded that people give him special treatment - that they give him adequate time and space, that they give him his own room to sleep in, that they let him eat alone…He hated it. He hated what he required of others.

And now…now that he had survived Black Mesa…now that his powers had proved themselves in the most absurd of situations…now they were all _only too happy_ to accommodate him.

He found out that the circle of people had been extraordinarily concerned about him, realizing he was in some kind of pain. One of them had already fetched Eli, and several sought to do medical examinations. And then everyone was apologetic, and everyone was saying, "What does he need? I'll get it, I'll give it." And then his personal room was vacated by its seven previous occupants - People were offering to only take one ration a day, to make sure he could eat enough. People volunteered to listen to him ramble about math, even if they had no idea what he was saying. "What does he need? What does the Free Man need?"

He _hated_ it.

When alone in his room, he snarled sarcastically to himself, "Does he need sexual release? He can have my body! No, mine! No mine!"

He put his head in his hands, now disgusted with his own disgust. He knew they meant well. He was being selfish and difficult - He even knew that he ought to accept their genuine care and support. But…something held him back, something stung him whenever they tried… _it's all so messed up…why does it have to be so messed up? Don't I appreciate it when Alyx gives me accommodation? Didn't I like her calling me a hero? So what's the deal now? Why can't I deal with these people? Why can't I deal with people at_ all _?_

 _And where is Alyx? Maybe she could try her hand at it. I bet she would know what I needed to hear…_

It was five days since he arrived. There was no sign of Alyx.

And Gordon could not help but put together why.

* * *

"Dr. Freeman!" Kleiner exclaimed through the television. "I wasn't expecting a call until this afternoon! How are the resolutions looking? Once we have them we can begin the actual hard labor on this teleporter -"

"I'll have the resolutions by this afternoon," Freeman replied. "But I wanted to ask you something, in privacy…while Eli and Mossman aren't here."

Kleiner blinked. "I have a hunch I know what it is," he said, somewhat apprehensively.

So Gordon asked his question point-blank. "Are Eli and Mossman sleeping together?"

Kleiner sighed. "Very likely, yes."

"And is that why Alyx doesn't like being in Black Mesa East?"

"I would reckon that is one of her grievances, yes."

"But you and Alyx told me that sex wasn't a thing anymore, because of the citadel?"

Kleiner replied in his measured, scientific tone, "The sexual drive itself has been shut down, as well as the essential enzymes involved in fertility and reproduction but…I am told that certain aspects of the act are possible, though difficult. The emotional aspect has not been shut down, and this manifests for some, especially those who are or were married, as a building pressure of unconsummatable emotion. Honestly, for Eli, I think it is a metabolic habit. You knew how… _close_ …he and Azian were…"

Gordon had always appreciated Kleiner's candor. It was Kleiner who convinced Gordon to move from Innsbruck to Black Mesa, and Gordon felt that no one else would have convinced him, not even Eli - Eli was, in temperament, more of a man than a scientist, and among their team he was in good company. He loved food, he loved socializing, he loved his wife, he loved kissing and hugging and loving his wife, and raising his daughter. There was a very human love of life in him. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed his time with people like Kleiner or Gordon; he was unconsciously trying to lighten them up. Perhaps the contrast between them gave him that much more purpose in life, and that much more enjoyment in himself as a person.

This was why, as Eli and Mossman grew more comfortable around Gordon, as he became more and more a fly-on-the-wall in their laboratory, working nearly all the waking day - that was why he was not so surprised when he would see Eli kiss Mossman on the cheek, the forehead, the mouth, much to her overly overt delight - or when they would leave the lab together, hand-in-hand, and return an hour or two later in desperate - and thus artificial - good spirits. When Gordon accidentally found Eli's old wedding ring set behind the portrait of Azian and the young Alyx - _Eli is lonely. Mossman is lonely. He shows her attention because she's there, and she responds with laughable attempts at sounding happy like him. Fascinating._

"I'm not altogether sure when it began," Kleiner continued. "Not before Black Mesa East, as far as I'm aware…and mind you, I am not replete with details on this…but you have likely noticed that Mossman is not…ahem…very _genuine_. At least, not in the traditional sense. Actually, she was your primary competitor for the position at Anomalous Materials in Black Mesa, if I understand the facts correctly; she lost due to your Innsbruck experience - though frankly, I think it had more to do with my personal recommendation and lobbying for you…I don't think she's ever really forgiven me for that. But I am disinclined to say that she is at all a "bad" person. She did good work for Black Mesa's General Biochemistry labs, instead of Anomalous Materials. She's similar to you, if I may say so…?"

"You _may_ say so. I understand what you mean."

"Good. She's like you, except rather than not speaking, she speaks all the time, and tries to sound normal. I don't think anyone has had the heart to tell her it's not working. Least of all Eli. Though actually…" and Kleiner hesitated for a moment, "…I think Alyx probably would have told her by now, and that didn't likely go over well."

* * *

Day seven.

Gordon was tapping his finger on a large glass jar. Inside the vinegar solution was a large, fleshy lump, like a meat potato, with several tubes stuck haphazardly into it.

"We're still not sure what that does…" Eli admitted to Gordon. "Alyx brings in the _strangest_ things…"

A door opened to the laboratory. "That's probably Judith," Eli said warmly. "Finally back from dinner -"

They both turned to see.

It was Alyx: same clothes, same hair.

She stood in place awkwardly, before finally giving them both a beaming smile. "Sorry it took so long," she said. "Just needed some…time."

"Ah, sweetie," Eli groaned with deep feeling. They met halfway on the laboratory floor, and he gave her a father's embrace and kissed her forehead. "It is _always_ good to have you back. It is _always_ good."

Gordon watched Alyx's face over Eli's shoulder, and she pressed her face into it, eyes shut tight, as if trying to imagine something.

Gordon did not move. He did not want to accidentally spoil anything. But the moment he saw her, his heart leapt into his throat. _She's finally back. I bet she knows Mossman isn't here right now, and that's why she came…_

Alyx and her father separated, and then Alyx turned to Gordon.

 _Hi there,_ Gordon said, though not aloud. _Where have you been?_

Now she was approaching him.

 _Wait, what are you-?_

She caught Gordon in an embrace too. Her whole front pressed tightly against his, and her arms wrapped beneath his, clasping her own elbows, and pressing her face into his chest. His skin sung from head to toe; his bones rang with the vibrations. His abdomen was a cathedral - the feelings echoed like bells throughout the cold stone walls.

 _She's very…warm._

He was so taken aback that he did not even think to return the embrace, and Alyx retrieved herself rather awkwardly, frowning.

"Um…sorry?" she said, apprehensive.

"What?" Gordon replied. "Who…I mean…?"

"Well, it goes to show," Eli offered as tactfully as possible, "that there's nothing Gordon can't handle, with the possible exception of you, sweetie."

"Dad, please…"

"Will you be staying with us long?" Eli continued.

"Well, I at least wanted to be here with you two for the hour."

"…you mean us _three_ …?" Eli replied hesitantly.

Alyx frowned again. "I thought Judith was at dinner."

"No, no; she switched rotations. She should be back any minute, sweetie…"

The door opened again.

"Eli!" Mossman called. "I have an idea for improving the Lancer resolution - Oh."

She stopped dead in her tracks upon seeing Alyx, who had yet to look up at Mossman.

"Ahem, um…well, I…um…"

"Would you like to join us, Dr. Mossman?" Alyx said plainly.

"Well, yes. This is where I work, after all," she replied honestly.

A moment of silence.

"I suppose it would be more accurate," Mossman continued innocuously, "to ask whether _you_ would like to join us, Alyx? Ha, ha!" Her punctuating laugh was so poorly timed that Freeman cringed.

The four of them stood around in excruciating silence. Eli looked as though he was about to speak, when Mossman tried her hand again: "I had thought you were on active watch in the countryside!"

"And I had heard," Alyx replied, neutrally, "that you were at lunch."

"Well, I was, but lunch is over now. Ha, ha! Um…" she glanced at Eli, who was struggling for words. "What is _your_ excuse?"

"I wanted to see Gordon. And maybe help with the teleporter. I didn't want to miss too much more action."

"We have the repairs well in hand, but thank you!"

"Well, my apologies, then," Alyx replied, but then, as though upon impulse she added, "It seems to be taking a while."

Mossman's smile somehow grew colder and falser. "Indeed; somebody misjudged the capacity of the Combine phyrister."

"Well, I think maybe -" Eli began, attempting to insert himself as a mediator - but Alyx interrupted, her saber of sarcasm slightly drawn from its sheath:

"Uh huh. You wouldn't be blaming _me_ , would you?"

"No. Not at all," Mossman asserted, chuckling. "It was a miscalculation, not a mechanical problem."

Alyx's eyes were icy.

"Then maybe you should let me do the calculations next time," she said, almost growling, " _as well_ as installing it, since _somebody_ is _distracted_ from _doing their job_."

The tension was strung like a tripwire.

"Alyx, really," Mossman said with a stereotypically maternal tone. "Sometimes I think you deliberately misunderstand me."

Eli cleared his voice loudly. "Alyx! Why don't you take Gordon…eh, give him some practice with the gravity gun?" His voice was a mixture of cordiality and command. Mother and father, against their daughter...Gordon gave Alyx a long look. Her fists were clenched and white-knuckled, her whole arm strained, her brows knit together, her wide mouth curled in an almost grotesque contempt. And there was Mossman, looking almost triumphant in her calm…

"Sure," Alyx replied, her voice struggling to sound unaffected. "C'mon Gordon. Let's go have some fun."

Mossman, her smile suddenly gone, reasserted herself unexpectedly. "The zero-point energy field manipulator is not a _toy_ , Alyx."

To which Alyx violently hocked a fat loogie on the ground between them.

"Let's get out of here, Gordon," she said, walking to the door Mossman had come through. Gordon followed, not waiting to see Eli or Mossman's faces.

* * *

They strode down the hallway towards the secondary elevators. Alyx did not say a word all the way there. They passed several workers on their way, who all stopped and stared at the two of them - the Free Man and Alyx Vance - but thought better than to say anything, as though they already knew the trouble Alyx posed when she looked like this.

Gordon felt almost disembodied, as though he were merely a specter following Alyx Vance around, immune to any harm due to his detachment. He was not sure if this was how he was _supposed_ to feel; he wondered if he was compartmentalizing. In fact, there were similarities to his adrenaline soaked experiences in firefights. He was rigidly attentive, both terrified and fearless, shaking and still, ready to switch strategies at the drop of a pin.

The elevator arrived, with a young man and an almost elderly woman inside.

Alyx gestured her thumb for them to leave.

"But…we're still going up…"

"Beat it," Alyx snarled. They obeyed.

Gordon and Alyx entered the elevator. She pressed for level two.

Silence. The elevator was rising.

Alyx's teeth were grinding viciously together, the veins in her neck beginning to bulge with rage, and her breathing was nearing hyperventilation - Gordon's eyes were wide and on alert, and, to his dull horror, a few possible methods of incapacitating her darted through his mind: _(1) knock head against metal wall, (2) bear hug her from behind and suffocate her, (3) threaten with knife in your pocket…_ But Gordon remained stock still, almost fascinated by the display. He was in a cage with a tigress.

By the time they reached level two, however, Alyx had managed to calm herself. The muscles relaxed, her breathing regulated, she stood up straight again.

"So," she began quietly, as the doors opened. "I see you've met Dr. Mossman."

Gordon did not answer. He simply looked at her, almost like a curious bird.

"She's one of the main reasons I spend so much time outside," Alyx explained.

Gordon nodded.

They began proceeding down the hallway. It was empty.

"You should hear her," Alyx continued, "droning on, about how… it should have been _her_ in the…Black Mesa test chamber that day," and she began grinding her teeth again. Gordon, as he heard the attempt at gossip, felt his heart leap at the accusation. _Well, that certainly_ would _be a good way to bother me,_ he thought. But he remained neutral.

At the end of the hallway was a blue, metal door with a keypad. A yellow lambda symbol was spray-painted on it, along with the letters "RH".

"I'm sorry, Gordon," she said suddenly, holding her head in her hands for a moment. "I shouldn't…be talking behind her back. It just…gets a bit _claustrophobic_ down here."

She began punching in a ten digit code. A buzzer sounded, and the doorknob unlocked. Alyx pushed her way through and Gordon followed. As they entered, a series of lights blinked on, revealing a cold, musty, metal hallway, devoid of any signs of life. At least half of the lights had burnt out, and one or two kept flickering - it cast everything in sallow inky shadows. Alyx, unperturbed, continued on, with Gordon striding to keep up.

They passed by a second hallway to the right, where the lights had not turned on. Gordon paused, looking down it with curiosity.

"That's the old passage to Ravenholm," Alyx explained, her voice somber, as though it were a headstone. After a moment of silence, she drew in breath, and continued on. "We don't go there anymore."

Gordon looked into the darkness, a deep, black throat…

"C'mon," Alyx beckoned softly. So Gordon jogged back towards Alyx.

They were approaching another airlock, much like the one they had first entered into Black Mesa East. But this one did not go through any of the same procedures: Alyx simply punched in another combination, and the second set of doors opened.

Absolute blackness.

Then, with an electric stutter, five industrial floodlights crackled on, illuminating a surprisingly large, cavernous space, a half-carved, half-natural air pocket in the rock. The floodlights were hung across the ceiling in strategic positions to better hold off the dark; but the shadows remained, like swaths of spilled ink on a picture. The exact size of the room was difficult to determine, because stacks of large metal storage crates and towers of metal scaffolding blocked his line of sight. Lining these intermediary metal walls was scrap and junk, sometimes piled neatly, sometimes less so: there were car engines, microwaves, computers, lamps, wood furniture, dissembled guns…Gordon noticed to his left a particularly well organized space with its own smaller lamp to light it. There was an old mattress and blankets, stored underneath one of several tidy work benches and tables. Behind those were actual shelves, which served to organize a museum of trinkets and gadgets and broken things: digital clocks, lightbulbs, things in jars, circuit boards, metal plates, springs, nuts, bolts, washers, nails, dissected power tools, a Combine helmet…actually two, three, four Combine helmets…And a whole shelf dedicated to stacks of pistols and batons.

 _Trophy shelf._

"So," Alyx said loudly, listening to her own echo, "here we are. The scrapyard. My childhood playroom."

Gordon noticed, hanging from one of the metal scaffolds, a tire swing.

As if by magnetism, Gordon approached it. He tugged at the rope, to see if it were stable. He pushed the tire, and watched how it swung, back and forth, like a pendulum.

Alyx watched him silently, with folded arms.

He turned back to her, and with an uncharacteristic grin, he leaped onto the swing. He kicked himself up in the air, riding a thirty-five degree angle, smacking the tire into a stack of machinery that promptly collapsed in an awful cacophony across the floor - he heard Alyx laughing, and grinned again. He was wildly rocking back and forth, and spinning around like a lost planet. But he clung on to the rope, fighting the centrifugal force, his lab coat flapping comically behind him, until finally he dragged his foot across the ground and came to a stop.

He and Alyx looked at each other.

"I had a tire swing when I was a kid," Gordon explained.

"You don't say?" Alyx laughed back. "That's probably the happiest you've…well, my memory might be off."

Gordon was back to swinging, but at a more relaxed pace. "This was your playroom, you said?"

"Oh," Alyx replied, looking around herself, "basically, I guess. I don't know what else you would call it. Dad gave it to me once we moved to this place; a place I could work on things, get my energy out…He strung that tire swing up for me, though I was hardly a kid anymore by the time we got here." She sighed. "But hey, what about you? You had a tire swing when you were a kid?"

"Sure," Gordon answered. "I'd spend an hour or two on it every day. I'd just go out into the backyard and swing on the tire and think. Sometimes I'd do it at night, too, and that drove my parents crazy. We'd watch a movie, and I'd get so excited from it - all these ideas would just start flying around in my head, and I could hardly keep myself from acting it all out, unless I went and swung for a good hour or two."

Alyx smiled, seating herself down on one of the work benches. "What movies did you guys watch? Did you have a favorite?"

"Ah, we didn't actually _own_ a lot of movies. We mostly caught them on television. But we did own _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. I loved that one as a kid…except for the gore, funny enough. But I probably watched it so much that I always knew when to turn away."

"What was it about? I haven't ever heard of it."

"Oh, it's about this archeology professor, but he does field work, where he collects really dangerous ancient artifacts. So he's absurdly good as a fighter, and all this other stuff he's really good at. He had this bullwhip that he could snatch guns away with, and I thought that was the coolest thing. It's a funny contrast, this professor being all…well, anyway, he gets word that there's this very precious artifact, and he has to get it before the Nazis do -"

"What were the Nazis? I've heard of them, but only glimpses."

"Ah, they were…well, that's a tough one to explain." Gordon had slowed down on the tire swing, and placed his foot firmly on the ground as he thought. "Basically they were like the Combine, just they were all humans. They were trying to systematically kill entire demographics from their own country's population - particularly the Jews."

"What were the Jews?"

"Oh, well, I would hope that there are still Jews around! Um…they're a religion. I don't actually know that much about them, to be honest. It's hard to know where to start with these things; they're just so…taken for granted, by me."

"That's fair," Alyx said, nodding. But then, "I more-or-less know these things, but they're all just faded history. We've had to set a lot of cultural things completely aside in order to cooperate here, or at all."

Alyx fell silent. The only sound was the buzz of the floodlights.

Gordon coughed, to get her attention. "Something about a 'gravity gun'?"

"Oh yeah," Alyx said, without much enthusiasm. She flipped over the work bench and slipped behind one of the shelves. Gordon heard sounds like a locker being opened. She reemerged carrying a large, dense contraption.

"You can call it the 'Zero-Point Energy Field Manipulator', if you _really_ wantto," she continued sarcastically.

The device was a ten inch glass canister reinforced with dark steel rods, and filled with…something…which was orange and dully glowing. To one pole of the canister was bolted a sort of radial claw: three spindly robotic fingers arranged symmetrically around the circumference. The other pole hosted a large metal handle on the back, and perpendicular to it, a secondary handle. It made faint, irregular noises like neon sparking through a tube.

"It's designed for handling hazardous materials," Alyx said, "but we mainly use it for heavy lifting." She proffered the device to Gordon, smiling slightly. "Give it a try."

Gordon took it in his hands. It was bottom-heavy: the weight was centered in the handles. He pointed it towards the tire swing.

"The primary trigger emits a charge -"

Gordon, accordingly, pulled back on the larger handle - the front blazed up, orange lightning surged silently between the three claw fingers and the front of the canister; the only sound was like rubber streaking on pavement, a flat, low squeal. And to that sound, the tire swing instantly flew over towards the lightning's triangular intersection. It halted, in midair, almost touching the bolts, but not quite.

Gordon flinched slightly in surprise, but held his ground.

 _Holy crap._

"Zeeber was _right_?" he exclaimed. "He was _right_ about zero-point energy? That son of a gun - is he here at Black Mesa East? This is incredible! Who made this thing?"

Alyx smiled, almost sheepishly. Gordon, almost to his own surprise, understood the face immediately.

" _You_ made this," he said, admiringly.

"I made about forty percent," she replied. "Though I'll admit it was the most important forty percent. I used some designs Kleiner had saved from Black Mesa, and consulted my Dad about some things…anyway, I built the triggers and the core of the field generator. And I designed most of the targeting computer system. I had to raid a Combine armory just to get the right materials. I was going to build the whole thing, but Mossman got ahold of it for a while and -"

Gordon, noticing the way Alyx's voice grew tense, coughed very loudly deliberately. "If Zeeber was right," he continued, somewhat tactless, "then a reverse-coordinated shutdown of the field would result in five powers momentum gain. I mean, um, it would launch like a bullet."

Alyx sighed and smiled again. "You think I wouldn't exploit that? Try the other trigger -"

He obeyed, pulling it back. The intersection exploded in a burst of light and long, yellow sparks. It sounded like a twenty pound grasshopper buzzing through its chitinous sides. The tire of the tire swing was thrown, with terrifying force, away from Gordon. It ricocheted off of a metal scaffold, almost smashed into a floodlight, and finally embraced the floor with an echoing thud. The thick rope had snapped almost perfectly in half.

Gordon looked back at Alyx, who was grinning.

"Sorry?" he said.

"I can fix it if you really want me to."

"The gun or the tire swing?"

"The tire swing," Alyx replied. "Mossman wanted to get rid of the gravity gun's launch feature, the killjoy."

"You mean the Zero-Point Energizer Quadratic Y-Axis Persuasion Field Modifier Whatever Thing?"

Alyx laughed, sounding like her old self more and more. Gordon smiled too. _It's working,_ he thought happily. Then he offered, "What else can this thing do?"

"Try it on something else," she suggested. "Mess this place up, if you want. Its targeting computer is incredibly fine-tuned; it can distinguish different objects from each other super well. Just point and click."

Gordon aimed at the fallen tire.

The tire leapt back into the gun's field, perfectly obedient. It hung there, in midair, not even turning from inertia - it was pinned in place like a butterfly on display. Yet the rope remained unaffected; it dragged limply on the ground like a tail.

"How do I drop it?"

"Reverse primary trigger."

The tire fell with a dull thud. Gordon aimed at the rope and clicked. With terrifying speed, it slithered up into a tangled ball in the air, and froze in place. The tire dangled beneath like a chicken's waddle. Gordon realized that he did not feel any weight added to the gravity gun - the objects became weightless in the field.

Gordon looked at Alyx. "When you say 'fine-tuned'…"

"The tire will not whip back and kill you, no. The momentum is isolated in the zero-point field."

Gordon stared at her, thunderstruck. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious! Give it a try!"

He fired. And to his amazement, the ball of rope launched forwards, but instantly was caught by the unmoved tire. The speed of the rope dragged the tire forwards a few yards, while the ball unwound itself, like yarn attached to a brick. It spent all its momentum, and draped itself in a line along the ground.

Gordon was silent.

"What do you think?" Alyx asked, slightly concerned.

"If there weren't a citadel, I would probably be rather aroused right now."

Alyx blinked. "Um…"

"Sorry, bad joke? That was a joke."

"Not one of your best," Alyx said kindly, punching his arm. "But maybe that's just me."

Gordon could feel his face turning red.

Alyx, as if in response, ran over to one of the metal crate walls. Like a cat, she scrambled up the side, and perched on the top.

"Try placing some boxes, to build a staircase," she suggested. "I want to show you something over here."


	7. Black Mesa East, pt 2

**I'm still here! Just working my way along! Thank you so much for your support - the reviews are very, very appreciated! Please let me know what you think.**

 **Next time, Ravenholm! Horay!**

* * *

Black Mesa East

(Part Two)

She led him over the crags of metal, nimble as a mountain goat, while Gordon couldn't help but stumble in keeping up. She was following a haphazard trail, something she had evidently memorized by heart. Over this box, then jump here, put your foot right here -

"That's it!" she called back to him, encouraging.

Finally, they walked through a large storage unit - a low, protective tunnel; Gordon was oddly reminded of a McDonald's jungle gym. On the other side was a large clearing, about as long as a basketball court. The edges were still stacked with old gadgets and tech, and there was an even larger set of work tables in the far corner. Just to the left of them was a large, wooden doghouse with a red-painted, peaked roof. As they dropped down from the storage unit, Gordon also caught sight, nearby, of a small wood sign, hung by chains from a discarded flagpole, leaning against a broken, half-dismantled washing machine. It was scrawled in the same shade of red as the doghouse roof, and was clearly the work of a child. It read: "BEWARE OF DOG."

Alyx stood nearby, hands on her hips, smiling at the clearing. "Now, let me call Dog," she declared. "He loves to play fetch." And with a loud, clear voice, she shouted across the clearing, her voice echoing like church bells off the stone walls: "Dog! Come!"

Instantly, something peered out from the large doghouse across the clearing - and as far as Gordon was concerned, it was not a dog.

He flinched - it was enormous. Something emerged from the veil of shadow, and was stampeding across the clearing towards them, a cacophony of metal banging on rock that made Gordon want to plug his ears, but he resisted. Alyx grinned as she stepped forward fearlessly to meet the beast.

It was a robot.

A big robot.

At least eight feet tall, it looked like it had been born spontaneously from the scrap piles around them. It was pieced together like a Lego monstrosity. Its design roughly followed the skeleton of a gorilla, with enormous arms and smaller legs, and a stooped, hunched back. Its right shoulder and bicep was an industrial-grade propeller blade, probably from a wind tunnel test chamber. This was attached, by some ingenious joint mechanism, to a neon-orange forearm from a construction bobcat. This was crowned with a kind of hand-hoof, which looked like car-scrap custom shaped with a welding torch. All these parts were rigged with cleverly twined cables. And so it went for the whole body: an industrial grade nightmare. And it moved; not with the stiffness Gordon expected from robots and machinery, but with a natural grace that had fooled him into assuming it was an animal, up until it halted ten feet from him.

Its head was a rusted metal flower: three moving petals around a flat disk, punctured in the center by a red, glowing pupil. The head was especially flexible and expressive, the petals fluttering with all the nuance of a curious German Shepherd. The neck craned the head so smoothly that Gor-don's instincts could not dismiss the possibility that the robot was sentient. Yet, from its body also came a dull, constant thrum, like a well-oiled engine, which reminded Gordon's mind that the being could just as well be as sentient as a toaster.

The robot, upon approaching Alyx, leaned forward, and performed a perfect somersault. Its body rotated in its various sockets in a way that only a machine could do.

"Good doggie!" Alyx crooned. The behemoth crouched down so that its head was at her eyelevel, and Alyx grabbed two of its petals and shook it affectionately. It made several strange, robotic warbles in response.

Alyx looked back at Gordon and laughed. "Gordon, this is Dog," she explained. "My Dad built him to protect me, when I was a kid." By now Dog had risen back to "his" normal height, and was fixating "his" strange iris on Gordon. "The first mod-el," Alyx continued, "was about…eh, this high -" and she gestured at a little above her hip, three feet off the ground "- but I've been adding to him ever since. Haven't I, boy?"

Dog warbled, as if in agreement. Alyx stroked its top petal.

Gordon just stared.

"Confused?" Alyx predicted.

"Um…"

"This isn't artificial intelligence, if you're wondering," she replied. "There's the brain and spine of a Great Dane in here," and she tapped on Dog's central carapace. A wave of relief rushed through Gordon. He did not even care how such a transfer was possible.

"After Black Mesa blew," Alyx continued absently, "my Dad found me in that nearby town with all the other escaped civilians…"

She paused, as though picking and choosing what she had the strength to talk about.

"A few days later," she continued, "the Combine managed to reopen another portal here. In seven hours all of Earth's militaries were decimated. And here we were, stuck in this little backward desert town. Dad, Kleiner, Barney...

"A big Combine dropship came - it was this giant, nasty bug, but it was mutated into a helicopter, somehow, so it could hold passengers - I still don't know if those things are alive or dead. Anyway, Dr. Breen came out of it, with a regiment of Combine soldiers. He wanted to see Dad. And I guess they talked for a long while, just the two of them. And afterwards Dad came back and he was…well, I found out later that he had tried to attack Breen, but was beaten by the guards for it, until Breen ordered them to stop -"

But Alyx cut herself off, as though she were embarrassed by something. "Sorry; anyway. That doesn't have to do with Dog. I met Dog a year after that; his owners were dead, and he became very attached to me as a girl. And something more-or-less killed him, but Dad transferred him - whatever. It doesn't matter." And she kicked somewhat violently at the stone floor.

Dog pushed its face up against her. She smiled and rubbed its metal back. "Who's a good boy?" she said.

"Can it feel?" Gordon asked cautiously.

"Sort of," Alyx replied. "It's hard to explain. Wanna play fetch?" And without waiting for his answer, she was already running, over towards a nearby stack of boxes, while Dog tramped back towards its shelter. Gordon just stood watching.

Alyx dragged something into view from nearby - it was the music player. She turned it on -

 _"Oh, ho, ho,_

 _it's magic!_

 _you know…"_

Then he saw: Dog, with one of its giant arms, reached into a large metal receptacle, and drew out a large wooden crate.

"Go ahead, Dog!" Alyx called out over the music. "Throw!"

 _Uh…wait…_ Gordon realized.

Like a catapult unfurling, Dog hurled the box with its arm - it flew up towards the ceiling, grazing an electric cable - by now it was clearing the stone football field - it was falling right for Gordon, hurtling like a car for him - no, not on top of Gordon, but less than a meter or two in front of him -

He triggered the gravity gun, and snagged it from the air.

"There you go!" Alyx called happily. "Throw it back!"

He launched it, at an angle, and after a few moments, Dog seized it with its long arms.

"Yeah! Alright!" Alyx cheered. Dog was very excited. The next throw came rather closer towards Gordon, making him uncomfortable, but he caught it without trouble and launched it back.

 _She's got an interesting sense of humor_ , he thought to himself.

Dog launched the crate -

 _I wish she had let herself talk more…_

The crate was hurtling towards him again -

… _oh, crap -_

The crate was too close - instinctively, he lunged out of the way, the gravity gun tossed to the side, clattering across the floor.

The wood crate hit a foot from where Gordon had been standing - it crunched together; the walls splintered inwards, then recoiled, flinging a hundred shards of itself forwards, while the main body cartwheeled for another yard.

"Gordon!" Alyx cried out. "Oh my - Gordon!" She was rushing up to him, and Dog, out of loyalty, was rushing up behind her. "Are you alright? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he reassured her. "Let's not play fetch anymore, though. I'd prefer that. Did I damage the gun?"

"Who cares about that junk?" she said with unexpected vehemence. "I am so sorry - my God, I'm so sorry, Gordon. I just wasn't thinking, I was trying not to think -"

"It's really quite alright, Alyx -"

"No, it's not, it's not. You could have gotten _killed_ \- my God - I'm so sorry - Dog! Dog go get your ball. That's right, good boy -"

She made the unnecessary effort of helping Gordon to his feet, and then, after staring awkwardly at his blank face, she turned away, as if in shame, her fists clenched at her sides.

 _"Never been awake,_

 _never seen a day break,_

 _leaning on my pillow in the morning…"_

Dog approached a nearby, overturned tub, on which a large boulder had been placed. Without much effort, he lifted the rock off the tub, which instantly began to vibrate and move. And before Gordon could get a look at Alyx's face, she was laughing at the tub. Dog, playing comedian, followed it around, as it seemingly tried to escape him. Finally, he lifted it up with one of his metal paws. Nothing was underneath it. But upon turning the tub towards Gordon, he could see, stuck to the inside, as if by magnets, a small metal contraption the size of a soccer ball. In fact, if every other hexagon on a soccer ball were caused to protrude out by half a foot, it would resemble that strange metal urchin. Dog reached into the tub, seized the ball, and threw it back across the football field. It smacked against the stone wall, bouncing noisily across the floor, and began to roll of its own accord, in an effort to escape Dog.

Alyx finished laughing. She folded her arms and looked at Gordon.

"I'm having a bad time," she said.

"You, uh…" Gordon replied uncertainty, "want to… _talk_ about it?"

She didn't respond. Gordon wasn't sure if she could hear him over the music and the clamor of Dog.

"Hold on…"

He walked over to the music player and shut off the music. Dog stopped his antics, and glanced over at Alyx, perhaps in concern.

Alyx did not respond. Her face was downturned a bit, and the stark floodlights obscured her features in shadow. Her silence was unnerving.

"Hey," Gordon said, trying to be gentle. "I'm going to play therapist this time, alright? You're…I mean, you're obviously in a bad place, and I want to help. Like you've helped me."

Silence.

"You're sort of my anchor, right now," he offered, but immediately regretted it. He couldn't throw more responsibility on her now. He couldn't guilt her into feeling better for his sake - "Just kidding," he tried. "No, wait, that's not…I don't mean that. I just mean: don't feel even guiltier on account of me."

He scratched his head feverishly.

"You've got to be a little selfish now," he said, quoting her. "I'm here, happy to listen. I'm…not much, but I'm here."

Then he sat down, cross-legged on the ground, like a child preparing for story-time.

Dog, by now, had crept somewhat closer to them in apparent curiosity. As Gordon sat down, he followed suite with a metallic clatter.

Alyx smiled at that, and patted one of Dog's arms.

"I don't know what you want me to talk about," she said.

"What's on your mind?" Gordon replied. "I've got nowhere to go."

"Mossman and Dad are on my mind."

"Alright."

"They're probably dry humping their flaccid junk," she spat, her tone venomous, "on each other _right now_ , in that freaking lab. Can't shake the _habit_ , I _suppose_."

Gordon blinked. "I really hope they're not doing that in there."

"I bet you fifty dollars they are."

"Money is worthless now."

"Not true. You can make origami with them."

"You learned origami?" Gordon asked. "Eli didn't teach you that…?"

"No, it was a sweet Japanese couple from…" Alyx paused. "Dad and I were sent to a German town by Breen. And we ended up hiding out in a basement with these two Japanese people and a little Swedish girl they were trying to take care of." She paused again. "Breen split everybody else up - Kleiner, Barney, Dad - but he kept me and Dad together. I think it was just to make Dad slower, because he was stuck with this little brat he had to take care of. And Breen also set up the cities we were put in, so that the Combine didn't actually interfere at all; they just kept us all from leaving. Then he would have a few gangs of thugs get put in all together with the rest of us, and without any organized police force they could just wreak havoc. That was how it was for three months or so. Finally the Combine stepped in and killed all the criminals publically, and started instituting order. They brought back the electricity, the water, they let people trade and sell and protected their rights. Once you've had months of bloody anarchy, any sort of government, even a totalitarian one, starts looking good. It's just how the mind works. People were desperate. And that's how they got people to submit at first."

By now Alyx was seated on the ground across from Gordon.

"What happened to the couple and the girl?" Gordon asked.

"All killed," she said. "Thugs found us one night - well, so what happened was, in the basement we were also living with three dogs; their owners had lived in the apartments above us, I think. One of them was this giant Great Dane, just the sweetest, slobbering thing…" and she reached out to Dog's arm and patted it. "But the thugs found us, and wanted…well, it doesn't really matter what they wanted. There was a firefight, I guess. The three dogs attacked the thugs, and two were shot and killed but Dog here was only wounded. He tore those guys to bloody pieces; he shredded them. A year or two later, he got a much worse injury, but Dad was able to use some Combine tech he'd found to transfer Dog's nervous system into a robot carrier."

She pet Dog's face petals, and it made a noise, a kind of mechanical croon.

"I don't know, Gordon. A lot happened…"

Gordon didn't answer; he didn't know how, and he didn't want to mess this up.

"I remember seeing my Dad, just, crying. Just sobbing. I didn't know why, I was still young. We'd been through a lot. Actually, it was the night before we finally escaped the city. I assumed it was about my Mom. I don't know anymore, though."

Alyx paused for a minute.

"I don't know if I want to talk about this, Gordon. I appreciate you being willing to listen, but…"

She paused again. Gordon did nothing but look her straight in the eyes.

 _C'mon,_ he thought. _Talk about it. Get it all out. Please… You've done it before. You talked to me about your Mom. Why don't you tell me anything now? Please, what is it?_

He was almost unblinking - he had always been unsure what to do with his eyes in a conversation, especially with girls. Usually he would look into the distance, because the intimacy of their eyes distracted him. But when he listened, he would fixate on their eyes, to make sure they knew he was paying attention. He wondered now, whether it was unnerving.

"But it's just…" Alyx began again. "Dad…when I saw him crying, that's just when it clicked. I'd never seen him crying before. And I realized what it really meant that other people have feelings. What that _really_ means, you know? It was…after that I started doing everything I could for Dad. I never whined, or complained. I ate whatever he gave me for meals. I started learning how to cook, though I still suck at it…I would do my best to keep his spirits up…I made up games so we'd have something to do. I got other people to teach me skills so I could help."

She paused.

"I…"

She paused again.

 _C'mon._

"Then we ran into Mossman. And she just…now it's like she's my mother, or thinks she's Mom. She was always motherly, except she _sucks_ at it. But Dad just goes with it. And now he's banging her, like she's Mom. Like, what the _hell_?" she snarled. But then she took a deep breath and continued. "I tried so hard to be there for him to talk to. I would sit there and just listen, but he wouldn't say anything about how he felt. Nothing about Mom, or the past, or anything emotional. I tried to be there for him…but then Mossman comes along. Then Mossman comes along, and he talks to her _all the time._ I know he talks to her about his feelings. _Mossman,_ of all people! She doesn't have any feelings! Not any _good_ ones! But he just falls head over heels for her - and what am I? I'm just the bratty little girl that Breen dumped on him, to slow him down! I'm just luggage! There's nothing I can do for him! Nothing _important_! I can kill people, but what the hell does that make me? Am I just a thug? Like those thugs who Dog killed?" Alyx was snarling again. Her nostrils flared. "This woman comes along and he's just gone - did he care at all about me? Did he care about Mom? _Does he even care about_ Mossman _? Who_ is _my Dad? I don't_ know _anymore! I haven't known since Mossman showed up!"_

She was shouting now.

"I got them data - do you know how many times I've gotten them data? Raided Combine bases, hacked into their files? But every time it's _corrupted_! Every time, _I screw something else up_! I can't even do _that_ right! I can't hack for crap! I can't figure it out! I risk life and limb just to get him information that _means_ something, just to get another chance to be _useful_ \- And that's why I'm not mad at you, Gordon! I'm glad you wanted to raid a base for no reason! I was _happy_ to get another chance, another crack at getting data! At doing _something meaningful_ \- but it's going to turn out again…I know it, I know that the data is just going to be corrupt like every other time because I can't -"

Very suddenly, she halted. It was as though she had tripped herself. Now her head began to sink back towards her chest, as if she were ashamed.

All Gordon could think: _That whole infiltrating the Combine was worthless? That was nothing new?_

"I just get really angry," she was saying, looking down at the floor.

 _She didn't tell me…she, used me? Took an opportunity?_

 _No, no…it's my fault, I gave her the idea…_

… _but it was all pointless…_

"I've always just…gotten _really_ angry -" She cut herself off again.

Gordon felt a deep pit yawn in his stomach. _Did I push her too much? Is this any of my business?_

 _This isn't my business - what have I done?_

"I don't really want to talk anymore, Gordon."

"That's okay."

"I'm sorry…I'm not usually angry. It's not that often. I think I'm just…I'm just tired. Claustrophobic. I'm not usually like this. I swear."

"Sure."

Silence. Alyx looked… _nervous_.

"You wanna play cards?" she asked, with a cheerfulness that was as superficial as Mossman's.

"Sure," Gordon repeated, his voice nearly dead.

* * *

They played cards for another hour or so. Then Gordon played a little more with the gravity gun, asking Alyx questions about how precisely it worked.

It was evening by the time he returned to his room. He was careful to avoid the lab; he did not want to talk with anyone right now, much less Eli or Judith.

He lay on his cot, staring blankly at the ceiling. The pit in his stomach had not gone away. He felt almost chilled.

 _The data always gets corrupted…_

… _"I can't hack for crap"…_

Something about that left him empty.

It all felt like it was falling apart, and he shared blame for it.

He sat up on his bed, pulled his notebook out, and began furiously scribbling out what he had learned from Alyx.

 _We're not back to square one. I can fix this…I can -_

Near the bottom of the page, he concluded:

"GIVEN ENOUGH ENERGY: QUANTAL SUSPENSION SUSTAINABLE…"

There was a knock at his door.

He closed the notebook quickly, unpleasantly reminded of the real world and its problems.

He slowly approached the noise.

"Yes?" he asked.

"It's Eli," said Eli.

Gordon opened the door.

Eli smiled sadly. "Hey there, Gordon. How is she?" he asked immediately.

Gordon blinked. "What?"

"How's Alyx? How's she holding up?"

Gordon frowned. For some reason, his brain was not processing Eli's question. Something about it seemed insufferably stupid to him.

"She's fine?" his mouth replied automatically.

"I apologize; I woke you up, didn't I?"

"No, not at all. I'm just working."

"Ah, alright. Then, do you mind if I talk to you for a few minutes?"

"Sure."

Eli paused. "Heh, you mean, 'sure,' as in, I _can_ talk to you?"

"Whatever floats your boat," Freeman said. The joke didn't take, so he smiled reassuringly, and Eli smiled back as he closed the door behind him.

"Alyx has had…" Eli began, but then paused. "She's had a hard life."

Gordon nodded, and waited for more. There was such sadness in Eli's face. But otherwise, he could not tell what Eli was getting at, or what his purpose was.

After a minute or two of silence, it occurred to him that perhaps Eli had been expecting some kind of report.

"Did you…" Gordon ventured, "want…something?"

"Well," Eli chuckled, "I guess I assumed Alyx _wasn't_ doing 'fine,' and you would want someone to talk about it with."

Gordon nodded again. "She isn't doing fine. She's angry at you for…doing whatever you and Mossman do…does it actually count as sex anymore, if nothing really works?"

Eli burst out laughing. Gordon was irritated by this, because the question had been meant seriously. People always got weird and unpredictable when sex came up. So he decided to push past it. "Never mind, that's irrelevant. The point is -"

"No, no," Eli said, still chuckling. "Let's pause there, Gordon. I'm sorry I'm laughing. It's like they say: if you don't laugh, you'll cry. It's just the way you put it…it just was funny to me…"

"Alyx doesn't think it's funny."

"I know she doesn't."

Eli sighed, his smile disappearing. He continued. "She doesn't understand sex. Nobody her age does. Plenty of people _my_ age never did, even before the citadel -"

"I really don't care," Gordon interrupted, rather sharply. "I don't care at all about your sex life right now. I only care about Alyx. And she is having a hard time. Are you going to fix it, or do I have to?"

Eli's look grew somewhat dark. After a moment of thought, he said, "She doesn't want to talk to me about it."

"And you _do_?"

"People are not equations, Gordon," Eli said, stern. "You don't just 'fix' them."

"Irrelevant -"

"No, it _is_ relevant, Gordon," Eli insisted. "You and Alyx have connected in a way that…you just dropped back in, Gordon, out of the blue; and if I heard right, you hadn't been back for even a full day before you and Alyx were confiding in each other. I couldn't doubt there is a God after that answer to my prayers. That Gordon Freeman would, of all…" He paused. "Alyx stopped confiding in me since Mossman and I began our relationship. She…must be so lonely. I know she is. But you are closer to my daughter than anyone on this planet. You don't realize how _perfect_ you are for this situation…so _yes_ Gordon, I am concerned with how you choose to handle your relationship with her. You are all I've _got_."

Gordon was unsure what to say. His brain was having trouble computing things.

"What are you _talking_ about?" he finally said.

Eli sighed deeply, his fingers massaging his forehead. Then he laughed, and coughed a little too. "I'm sorry, Gordon -"

"Be sorry to Alyx. Go work out your problems, or something. Make her feel better."

"Just let me finish," Eli insisted. "There is a great deal on my mind. I've made serious…decisions. I don't know how many will turn out to be mistakes. I can't explain everything now…but please, you are a godsend - Alyx needs…she needs to…" He broke up into coughing again. Gordon stood up, worried, despite his growing irritation. But Eli waved him back down. "She needs _you_ , not me," Eli said. "Soon, she's going to have to get on without me, Gordon. Too soon. She'll be all the better for it, so long as someone is there to help -"

"Are you sick?" Gordon asked, point blank. "Alien cancer?"

"What? No. No I'm not sick, not in the conventional sense -" Eli replied.

"Good. Then go fix this yourself."

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"I suck at it. I can't fix her," Gordon continued, beginning to ramble with increasing violence, "I need her to fix _me_. Don't throw your problems on me, Eli. Don't do that. I suck at people. I don't know what to do with all of you people. People don't make sense. They get angry and they have sex and they smile but don't mean it and sometimes when they smile it means one thing and sometimes it's another and I can't stand it. I can't stand it. There is nothing for me to do here. I don't know what to do. I think I maybe hate all of you, except Alyx, but maybe I'll end up hating her too. But don't throw even more on me. Don't do that."

They stood silently for another few moments. Eli…was so sad, as he looked at Gordon, as though he vaguely understood what was happening behind those glasses.

Gordon stood up. Though Eli was taller, just by an inch, yet Gordon still managed to tower against him. "Now, get out," he said, oddly polite.

Eli was taken aback. "Gordon…"

Gordon repeated himself. " _Get out._ "

Eli, confused, hurt, defeated, old - left the room, and closed the door behind him.

When he was gone, Gordon locked it. He leaned against the wall. He slid down, until he was hugging his knees to his chest, and burying his face into his thighs. He sat there for a minute or two.

He grabbed his notebook. He flipped through, reviewing his efforts of the past week. Then he began furiously scribbling notes, drawing diagrams, making his handwriting as clear as he possibly could. And he began ripping out these new pages, and setting them in a neat pile beside him.

Within two hours, he had created a small booklet of five front-and-back pages. His wrist throbbed.

His brain was numb. He wasn't really thinking anymore; everything had gotten too chaotic, too complex, too violent in his mind. He could not handle it anymore; he could not even tell precisely what he couldn't handle, because the memories were still in the overheating rooms of his brain. So he shut the fire doors on them; he quarantined the fire, he sealed it in. Damage control: let the rooms burn, burn, burn - burn themselves out.

In the meantime, he had work to do.

* * *

It was three in the morning. The night shifts were mainly active in the upstairs levels. But Eli and Mossman were to bed. The teleportation lab was empty.

Gordon was silent.

He slipped in with the booklet of notes, as well as his entire notebook in hand.

He glanced around the room, lit only by a dim emergency bulb in the ceiling.

He placed the notes on Eli's primary desk, and held it down with a pen. He kept the remaining notebook with him.

At the very top of the notes' cover sheet was written:

"THIS SHOULD FINISH IT. THANKS FOR THE FOOD. - G. Free."

He had to work quickly now. The H.E.V. suit was in storage on the same level, but it was possible somebody was tending to it; he did not know the schedule. But he would find a way once he saw the situation.

And, once he had the suit: up through the top floors - he would tell the guards he was on a divine mission, or some nonsense like that. _Though, I guess, in a sense, I am. I'm going to destroy the citadel. I'm just not doing it with anyone else. They have the teleporter now, anyway. They have the best I have to offer them. They don't need me anymore. And I don't want them to need me anymore._

And yet, he thought to himself, _C'mon Gordon, you're going to run away again?_

 _Yeah, I am,_ he replied to himself. _I'm running away into even greater danger. Why? Were you going to tell me I'm being a coward?_

 _You're leaving Alyx behind._

 _I'm not her boyfriend. I'm a weirdo she feels sorry for._

 _Are you kidding?_

 _No. And also, I last knew Alyx as a little girl. You don't think that's weird?_

 _She's not a little girl anymore._

 _Shut up. Shut up, shut up…_

 _You know this is a jerk move._

 _I. Don't. Care. I am not staying here._

 _They want you here. This will kill Alyx, you know -_

 _SHUT UP._

 _You already did this before -_

 _SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP -_

 _Your parents never forgave you for cutting them off like this -_

Gordon kicked at one of the tables with terrifying violence. It screeched six inches across the hard floor, and several monitors and other valuable equipment were knocked to the ground with awful shattering sounds.

He breathed heavily.

…

One of the monitors, still on the table, had turned on. The screen had only been asleep. Now its piercing digital light was outshining the emergency bulb.

Gordon had not been paying attention before: only now did he realize that, plugged into the monitor's computer, was Alyx's data-drive - the very one which she had stored the stolen Combine data on.

As if in a trance, he approached the computer. None of them were password protected. The screen was just right there for him to view.

…

PROCESSING…

DOWNLOAD COMPLETE.

"Standard": BEGIN /

SENDING DOWNLOAD…

WARNING: UNREGISTERED DESTINATION INPUT...

LOCKS OVERRIDED, PERMISSIONS GRANTED.

HELLO ELI.

…RESUMING DOWNLOAD.

DOWNLOAD SENT: "R.H."

DOWNLOAD RECEIVED: "R.H."

CORRUPTING INPUT DEVICE…

CORRUPTION COMPLETE.

Gordon's heart was pounding in his ears.

He heard a door open.

"Dr. Freeman?"

He turned to the speaker, wide-eyed.

It was Mossman.

"Good heavens!" she said, placing her hand to her heart in poised astonishment. "When did you come in here? I was only gone for a minute or two, I thought I saw someone in a suit and I went to check - ah, I must not be getting enough sleep…ha, ha…eh…"

She saw what Freeman was looking at.

"Oh…" she said, her eyes widening too. "Eh…what…eh, what is that…on the computer…?"

"You tell me," Freeman said quietly.

Mossman was pale as a sheet. "Doctor…you really shouldn't have…"

" _What is going on_?" Freeman asked quietly.

The computer's light flashed over his glasses. His eyes were hawkish behind them. Half of his face was light with orange-red light, the other in harsh florescence, as though he were wearing an opera masquerade.

Then another voice came from behind Mossman.

"Judith? Is the download finished? There's no need to be so anxious, honey; everyone knows the lab is off-limits at this hour -"

It was Eli. He had come through the door behind Mossman. Now he halted at the sight of Freeman.

"- except Gordon," Eli finished, almost sarcastically, "who has been calming down in his room."

Gordon straightened his back. "You selling secrets to the Russians, guys?" he said, his voice beginning to drip with venom.

"Will you let me explain?" Eli asked.

"No."

Freeman bolted.

"Gordon! _Gordon!_ ".

But Freeman was already out into the hallway, sprinting for his life. He followed the very path he and Alyx had followed the other day. Eli continued to call out behind him.

 _Have to tell Alyx…have to tell Alyx…_

He rounded a corner - there was the elevator - it was already opened, ready to receive him - but someone was already inside -

The government man.

* * *

No time to think about it. Gordon ran into the elevator, nearly slamming against the far wall.

"Going up?" The G-man asked, smiling, and pushed for the second floor.

The doors slid shut. The elevator began rising.

Gordon stood, his back to the wall, away from the G-man, who was busy compulsively straightening his tie.

"Not that it's my _business_ ," he said in his raspy, apneic voice, "but you…are really too _hard_ on poor Eli."

The elevator light was stark on his old skin; it filled his sallow cheeks and highlighted his sharp edges, making him look even more like a skull.

"Are you _going_ to shoot at me again?" the G-man queried.

"No."

"Well, then…I'll deliver my _message_. Or rather, warning; there has been a slight change…of schedule. I apologize: I had planned originally for matters to progress…more _naturally_ , but unforeseen circumstances have required that I… _improvise_."

Gordon said nothing.

"I will have your suit moved to a more…accessible location. Room 230, on the approaching floor, but it will not _arrive_ until…after…you speak with Alyx. And I will see what I might do about…aiding your course."

"Could you be vaguer, please?" Gordon snapped.

"As I said to you…before," the government man replied, "it will all make sense to you, as you move forward."

The G-man's gaze lingered for a moment on Gordon's closed notebook, still gripped tightly in his hand.

"Don't read my diary," Gordon said. "I wrote some unflattering things about you."

The G-man smiled. "Oh, I already know what you're up to in there, Dr. Freeman." His eyes dipped into the shadows of his face, and gleamed out of them liked distant stars. "It won't work."

The elevator arrived. The doors opened.

"The combination to her room is 110209," the G-man added.

Gordon blinked.

The G-man was gone.

* * *

Down the passages; the lights were already on: Alyx had been through here already, or she had never left. Perhaps she was asleep in the cave - the thought was eerie to Freeman: sleeping in such an open, silent space, underground…

He passed the black throat to Ravenholm…Raven Holm…R.H…but no time to think, might be coincidence, he needed to meet with Alyx. She could make sense of this; she could know what to do with the information.

Right?

He was at the airlock door. The combination pad was to his right. Was there a way to knock? Or tell her he was coming in? _Does she change clothes in there? Does it really matter?_

After a moment, his anxiety pushed him to act anyway: 110209…

The doors opened.

It was still lit inside.

"Alyx," Gordon was about to say -

But there she already was.

She was surrounded by destruction.

All of her shelves of trinkets and trophies, her desks and work tables, and a number of salvaged appliances besides, were irreparably shattered on the ground around her. What was wood was splintered, and the splinters scattered. What was metal was dented and bent and thrown meters away. A microwave, a television, and an old radio had been dashed to pieces against the stone floor. The trinkets were all crushed underfoot and smeared about by the heel. And what had served as her bed was torn to shreds: the stuffing was everywhere like wool of a dismembered lamb, the blankets ripped by the seams and thrown helter-skelter.

Just as the door opened, its sound was muffled by Alyx's primal scream -

\- as she threw down a metal file cabinet from over her head.

It made a cacophony against the floor, vibrating all over as it hopped a time or two away from her, scraping the stone. She did not let it rest, but kicked it with her heel, shoving it forwards into a pile of junk against the wall, which toppled over onto it with even more noise. Unsatisfied, she threw herself on the fallen pile, throwing the objects against the ground as hard and as quickly as she could, continually screaming and hollering in shuddering rage. Dog was in the farthest corner that Gordon could see, peering out from between two large bins, apparently cautious…afraid.

Just as she was about to hurl another lamp, she saw Gordon.

The lamp fell from her hands, smashing and clanging behind her.

" _How…did you…get IN_ ," she snarled.

It was not a question, and Gordon did not answer. Her anger stabbed him through the heart. He felt almost warm in the chest, as though he were internally bleeding. He may even have grasped a bit at his chest, as he stood there in the doorway, surveying the damage with incomprehension.

After a moment or two, he could not stop himself from saying, "I guess this is what you meant by 'mad'."

In response, Alyx screamed, and kicked at the pile of junk. Gordon leaped an inch into the air, and felt something choke in his throat. His heart was pounding in his ears. Meanwhile, she had screamed again, apparently in pain; she clutched at her injured foot and strained knee, and fell onto the ground.

She curled up into a ball. Her body heaved with wet sobs.

A horrible little thought came into Freeman's mind -

 _Just leave her._

And he responded: _Shut up._

 _You can't fix this._

 _I don't care._

 _You'll only make it worse._

 _I don't care._

 _You probably are what caused this anyway._

 _Irrelevant._

Salty waves of sadness rolled through him, like the Pacific surf. But also fear - blood-red fear, clogging his throat, making his eyes almost water.

 _What do I…what do…what do I do?_

Carefully, slowly, he knelt down beside her. She did not react.

He thought for a few seconds. He felt caged with a tiger. But nevertheless: slowly and awkwardly, he draped himself over her body like a blanket, wrapping his arms about her waist, and resting his head against her upturned shoulder.

 _She is so soft._

 _Shut up._

Alyx's sobbing hesitated.

Silence.

"What," she asked, through a dripping nose, "what are you d-doing?"

"I'm trying to hug you," he replied honestly, "but you're at a weird angle."

Silence, except for a sob or two.

"Is it working? Do you feel better?" he asked.

"Oh, s-shut up."

"Okay."

Slowly she raised herself up. Gordon began to let go, but her hands took his, and kept them around her. Together, they readjusted their position: now they were both sitting up, their backs against the junk wall, with Alyx leaning into Gordon's willing embrace, half-burying her face into his chest, which she began staining with tears and snot.

"I d-didn't want you…to…s-see me like this…" she choked out, "I d-didn't want you t-to see me b-broken…I t-thought I could start a b-blank slate…"

Gordon thought, _Please, please, please, don't mess this up, Gordon. Don't mess this up. What do I do, though? What do I_ not _do?_ He held her a little tighter, as though they were hanging over a cliff together, and he was assuring her, _Don't worry, I've got you._

She continued, "Everybody h-here is afraid…of m-me…D-Dad is afraid of m-me…M-Mossman t-too…I've k-killed so many p-people t-to protect…D-Dad and…n-no one wants t-to talk to me because…I g-get so angry…I w-would get into fights…B-but I thought I…I thought I could start over w-with…you…b-because y-you d-didn't know…"

She was sobbing again.

"I w-would get into fights as a t-teenager…around here…with other survivors…I d-don't know, I was just so g-good at it…I w-wanted Dad to p-pay attention…I w-was such a brat…I was a selfish manipulative _brat_ …and I hit someone s-so hard they hit their head on the floor and…they d-didn't…they d-didn't m-make it…"

Sobbing.

"N-no one w-wanted t-to t-talk t-to m-me then…I w-went and killed in the f-field instead; I h-hate coming home…M-Mossman thinks I'm a m-monster…I'm a m-monster…Everyone hates m-me…and they s-should…now you're afraid of me too…and you should hate me…I j-just wanted you to like m-me, that's why I helped you I just wanted you to like me and pretend it all never happened…oh god…oh god, oh god…"

Sobbing.

Gordon wanted to run away.

He wanted to be back in his room, with his equations, and no people around.

It was a familiar feeling.

He looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed tight, her cheeks flush from the strain.

 _She needs an anchor,_ Gordon thought. _My sick leave is up._

 _But I can't handle this._

 _Yes you can. You're Gordon Freeman._

 _That means nothing._

 _It does to everyone else. They can't_ all _be wrong._

Gordon kept staring at her face, at her pain.

And then, from an honest kernel of his soul, he simply said, "I don't really care about all that."

Her eyes opened, and looked up at him. He couldn't tell if they were angry, or if that was just the angle.

He continued, "I mean, it's actually kind of fascinating: how much I really don't care. I mean, I probably _should_ care, right? But I guess I care about _you_ , more than whatever you've done."

He paused.

"So, seriously, let all the skeletons out of the closet. Are there any more? Cause I won't flinch. You already convinced me that you're awesome so -"

Alyx was sobbing again, even harder now.

"- uh -" he wasn't sure if this was good crying or bad crying, and he was afraid to ask. But something warm and hot was rising from his heart - it was an unfamiliar feeling. Something more than just gut reaction, fear, or anger - tears were starting to run down his cheeks too - He was remembering that first night, when she came and comforted him, and told him how much she admired him…

"Alyx," he said, almost without thinking, "You've saved me, not just my life but…I probably would have gone crazy in this sick new world, without you. But you've kept being there. You went through the teleporter before me - you knew just what to do. I wasn't afraid after that. You know that, right? I was brave after that."

Her hands clasped him tighter; she leaned closer into his chest - shivers ran up his spine -

"And…you talked with me when Arlene died…you knew what to say…you made me drink water…I dunno…I don't care if you think you did all that stuff for selfish reasons. You still did it to me, for me. And anyway, you're wrong if you think you're selfish. I don't buy that. You're good."

Her eyes were open, red and swollen from tears. She looked up at him - the look in her eyes…another shiver up his spine as they kept eye contact.

 _Oh, that's what they mean when they say: they get lost in each other's eyes…_

He choked on his words a little. "You're good. You're great. And _I'm not going_ _anywhere_. I'm staying right here, to help you like you helped me -"

Suddenly, she reached her hand up to grasp the back of his head - he jumped a little at the motion - but just as suddenly, she had pulled their faces together and -

 _OH,_ he thought. _HELLO THERE._

Her lips were pressed firmly, almost longingly, into his, settling upon his bottom lip for a few seconds. His mind was on fire. An electric spark had shot through his brain and caught the curtains ablaze. Goosebumps raced over every inch of his skin, his heart was pounding louder and fuller than a bass drum.

She pulled slowly away at first - but then rather abruptly parted, quickly disentangling herself from his embrace. She looked almost mortified.

"I'm," she stuttered, "I am _so_ sorry - I just…I…"

As always, Gordon was not sure what to say. He reached up compulsively to touch where she had kissed him - his lip was warm and wet and felt almost numb - "It's really…quite fine…I'm fine…" he managed, somewhat in a daze.

"I just - got very emotional - got caught up in the -"

"Completely understandable; it truly isn't a problem -"

"You just…you weren't…kissing back or anything…ah jeez…"

"No, no, no - don't feel bad, I just didn't know what to do - first time and all -"

"First time?" she commented, incredulous.

"Uh…yes."

"But…you lived before the citadel - Oh, I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to assume…I must sound like a - ah jeez…"

"It's perfectly fine. It was very pleasant. Er…I mean…"

"I just…got carried away," she continued. "I really am sorry, I didn't mean to - you just were…just, thank you. You're very good. Good at therapy. That sounds weird but…"

They stared at each other for a few moments.

"I guess you bring it out of me," he said, and smiled. "I'm just glad to see you not be miserable."

She chuckled, breathing deeply. She looked…safer. A tension was loosening a bit in her chest. Some more tears came out, but they were calmer.

But then he remembered why he had come to her in the first place.

… _Do I tell her…? Now…?_

"Alyx…" he began uncertainly -

\- budump, budump, budump, buDump, BuDump, BUDUMP BUDUMP

Suddenly Dog was upon them, slamming his fists upon the ground in apparent agitation.

"What? Dog, what is it?" Alyx said, startled.

Dog let out a piercing, mechanical squeal, and several loud warbles.

"Dog, I don't…the ground? Something in the ground?"

Dog was sticking his petal-head towards the stone floor, as if listening. Alyx placed her head to the floor too.

"Dog, I don't…"

But slowly her eyes widened.

"What is it?" Gordon asked. But Alyx did not answer. She jumped to her feet and began feverishly sorting through the shattered junk around her. As she did, she said to Gordon, "Get the gravity gun."

"Where?"

"Back where I first pulled it out. The case is unlocked."

As he retrieved it, Alyx gave a sigh of relief: she had found what she was looking for and it was not damaged. It was some kind of radio. "Hello? This is Alyx Vance, calling level one surveillance. I have possible signals of a breach. Rhythmic vibrations beneath Storage B - my room. Is anyone checking the seismometer? Hello? Is literally _anyone there_?!"

Gordon hefted the gravity gun into position and returned to Alyx's side. He looked at Dog, who stared back with his expressionless, cycloptic eye.

" _Hello_?" Alyx demanded. Gordon was beginning to fear she would throw the thing down in anger. "Possible sign of breach; I repeat: _possible sign of breach_! This is Alyx Vance -"

"Alyx Vance? Zis is Belair. Vibrations, you say?"

Alyx sighed again. "Yes. Beneath Storage B. Every six seconds with jutters in between. Can you get a reading?"

"Ah…hold on…it looks normal - vait - every six seconds…"

But Gordon was thinking. _…there has been a slight change…of schedule…_

"Zis reading is too low to be sure, but zhe…eh…let me run a Mikuscan -"

"Tell them to sound the alarms," Gordon interrupted.

Alyx looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Please, Alyx. Something is going to happen."

She blinked. "How…are you just being intuitive…?"

"Who is zat zhere?" said the radio. "I heard anozer voice…?"

"This is Gordon Freeman," he declared. "Sound the alarms. Begin evacuating everyone."

"Gordon Freeman?" said the radio. "I…vhat? Sir, ve get vibrations like zis all zhe time. Our equipment is very sensitive, and zhere are large vorms in the ground -"

"It's not a worm," Gordon said. Then, to Alyx, "I'm going to get changed. Come with? Or meet me elsewhere?"

Alyx just stared. "Gordon, my mind is still buzzing. I'm not completely with it, okay? I'm not following what you mean."

"I'm going to get my H.E.V. suit. And change into it."

"…uh, okay…? But it's down on level six; the Vortigaunts are performing tests -"

"No, it is in Room 230."

"What do you mean it's in -"

"Do you still need me on zhe line -?"

DOON.

A crack of thunder from underneath their feet - and the lights flickered out.

The radio fizzled, snapped, and went dead.

"Belair…?" Alyx nearly shouted. " _Belair, come in?_ "

It was pitch black. The only light was Dog's eye, like a little bioluminescent deep fish.

There was a steady rhythm, growing more and more powerful beneath their feet.

"Dog, flashlight."

Dog's eye dilated, and the light intensified, making a strong, but somewhat narrow beam to see by. He aimed the light on Alyx, who, rather to Gordon's surprise, had drawn a handgun from her jacket's inner pocket. "Room 230. Let's go," she said.

* * *

Down the hall, past the passage to Ravenholm -

 _I can't tell her now. But when? How?_

Out in the main corridor, emergency power had kicked in, granting them sparse lighting. A number of fellow survivors, armed with guns, were running through the hallways. They all made way for Dog, as Alyx began shouting - " _Get to level one, people! Get to surveillance, get all alarms going_!"

Hardly was it out of her mouth when, throughout the building echoed -

" _Alert…alert…incoming breach detected. Red and Blue detachments report to level one. Green and Yellow, report to level four. Surface and subterranean breaches incoming. Alert…alert…_ "

DOON.

All lights flickered off again, causing everyone to gasp and shout fearfully. The intercom was silenced -

Gordon was racing after Alyx, down the corridors, past the confused souls -

The lights came on once again, the alert picking up midsentence:

" _\- and subterranean breaches incoming. Alert…alert…incoming breach -_ "

They were at Room 230.

"Why would it be here?" Alyx asked. Gordon did not answer, but thrust open the door. Inside was a chaos of more storage...there were metal cases and open crates everywhere…

DOON.

Everything went black - except a little circle of light in the corner: the H.E.V. chest flashlight.

Gordon rushed to it, and as the lights flickered back on, he hurriedly began strapping and assembling the suit around him.

In the background, Alyx had managed to get the radio working again. She was contacting someone else -

"Dad? _Dad?_ It's Alyx, it's Alyx, _do you read_?!"

"Alyx!" came Eli's voice. "Oh, Alyx…"

"Are you alright? You guys are getting the alarms too?"

"Yes, yes - where are you Alyx?"

"We're in Room 230, Storage D auxiliary…"

"Is Gordon with you?"

"He's right here. He's found the H.E.V. suit, somehow…"

"He's found the…what? Never mind - this is good! This is very good! I want you two to -"

DOON.

Gordon could not see what happened, but he heard Alyx cursing a hurricane in the darkness. Meanwhile, Dog clamored on top of some boxes, two of which were crushed by his weight. But from this higher point, he could shine his light on Gordon like a spotlight. "Good Dog," Gordon said.

 _bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang_

Gordon's heart stopped.

The lights flickered back on. "- ckkckzzckAlyxAlyx _do you read me_? Alyx?"

From somewhere, deeper in the facility - _bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang_

Alyx shut the door to Room 230. She, Dog and Gordon were silent inside.

"I read you," she replied. "Dad, there is gunfire. They're already through. I don't know how but _they're already through_ …"

"Sweetie…I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"Dad, shut up. We're going to come down and get you. Tell us where you are."

"No - sweetie, I need you to do something for me. Please."

"You…what? You need…?"

"You need to go to Ravenholm -"

DOON.

 _bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang_

 _bangbangBANGbangbangBANGbangbang_

 _bangbangbangbangbangbangbangBANG_

"Gordon!" Alyx shouted.

"I'm halfway done," he replied.

"How did you know the hazard suit would be here?"

"Some creepy old guy from the government told me."

"That _isn't funny_ right now, Gordon; you may not have noticed, but I'm _not emotionally stable_ at the moment -"

"Fine. Mossman told me."

 _BANG BANG BANG._

 _bangbangbangBANGbangbang_

The lights flickered back on.

" _Alyx_! Are you there?!"

"Yes! Why Ravenholm?"

"You have to trust me! Please, Alyx - you and Gordon need to go there now! Take Dog with you -!"

"Dog!" Alyx immediately shouted. "Go to level five and find Dad! Protect him!"

"Alyx! No!"

" _Shut up_!" Alyx almost screamed. " _Shut up and just let me help you!_ Dog! Go!"

Dog was already out the door -

"Alyx, I need him to protect -"

"Why Ravenholm? Dad, please, just for once in your life tell me _why_?!"

 _BANGBANGbangbangbangbangBANG_

Gordon was two-thirds done -

"Sweetie," Eli said, choking up, "I'm so proud of you. You have done so much - promise me you'll do this last thing, and find Chekov in Ravenholm."

…

"I promise," Alyx said.

"Godspeed sweetie. You're a flawless hacker. Go see for yourself -"

DOON.

"Dad…" Alyx said, in the darkness - but there were a few shaking lights from the hallway that lit the side of her face, the sound of Combine radios -

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Gordon saw Alyx collapse backwards.

He was done.

"Preparing to sweep the room," radioed one of the guards. "Room 230 -"

Gordon looked for a weapon. His H.E.V. flashlight swept the floor. The gravity gun? No, he wasn't practiced enough, he couldn't mess this up -

"I think we hit the girl. She's behind a wall - ready to storm -"

Crowbar.

"Hold - now on my mark - three, two -"

The Combine soldier did not get a chance to finish. For just as they were about to turn into the room, a metal crowbar swung out and crushed the front of their face.

"What the -"

CRACK, CRUNCH, BANG -

One's head cracked against the wall, another's helmet was dented in, crunching the cranium. But there was a gunshot too, and Gordon wasn't sure from where -

The lights flickered on again.

Four fallen Combine soldiers in the hallway. One of them was shot through the eye. Gordon turned around -

There was Alyx, in the doorway, gun smoking. Her right leg was bleeding severely, and there were gashes in her side. She was leaned against the doorpost for support, but her gaze was cold and steady.

"Ravenholm?" Gordon asked.

"Ravenholm," she confirmed.


	8. We Don't Go to Ravenholm, pt 1

**Hello, dear readers!**

 **Thank you for your patience. This one took me a bit longer, even with me splitting the Ravenholm chapter into two parts. I hope you like it! Like seriously! Please let me know what you think, good or bad. I just figured out that I can actually reply to comments people make! So that's nifty!**

 **I was trying to really set a clear stage for Ravenholm, and make it as tense as possible. I'm learning so much about writing from doing this project, by the way. It has been extraordinarily fruitful for me. That's my wink wink that I'm not going away, like I've said before.**

 **Anyway, enjoy the first part of Gordon and Alyx's first date in Ravenholm! Will the power of their awkwardly emerging-turtle love overcome the twisted pandemonium of a Romanian heavy metal album cover?** **Maybe! Just maybe! But you don't find that out in this chapter! This chapter is two-thirds stage setting for Ravenholm, just as fair warning.**

 **Hopefully the next chapter will not take as long, as I already have things more clearly worked out in my head.**

 **Cheers!**

* * *

"We Don't Go to Ravenholm,"

(part one)

Dr. Eli Vance.

The old photograph of him, with his wife and daughter, lays buried, beneath dust and rubble, in the raided labs of Black Mesa East.

The photo was taken in the summer of 2004: Eli fills the top right corner of the frame, more than a head taller than his wife Azian. His hair is rich and black. His whole face is handsome and put-together, his skin healthy and clean, without a wrinkle, except for his broad, full-lipped smile.

Another photo was taken of Eli Vance on December 23rd of 2025, around five in the morning. It was a military mug shot. Eli's right eye is black and bulging, his nose is bleeding, his face harrowed with wrinkles, his hair all gray and white, with spatters of dark red.

This was how Eli looked an hour after his personal surrender to the Combine. He, Mossman, and sixty-five rebels had endured about forty-eight hours of brutal siege, holding out in several linked laboratories on the sixth floor of Black Mesa East. They were only one of five other such besieged pockets, which continued to resist the Combine after Eli's surrender.

Black Mesa East: population of 1,023 (95, or 9%, of those were Vortigaunts). 218 (or, 21%) were cornered, but still fighting. 145 (14%) had managed to escape in the countryside due to a brief break in the Combine's lines. 32 (3%) were kept alive in the custody of the Combine.

628 were dead: 61%.

The Combine officers wanted Eli to tell the remaining rebels to stand down. Eli refused, saying only, "They're horribly disciplined. They won't listen to me." The Combine exerted a number of creative and physically persuasive arguments upon Eli, but he did not change his answer.

December 24th, 2025, 7:45 AM. Dr. Eli Vance was in a plain, dark, metal interrogation room, handcuffed to a table that was bolted to the floor. His right eye was too swollen to see, and green and purple bruises had developed all around his face and neck. His nose looked as though it had been permanently knocked out of shape. Several of his teeth were missing. He had not showered in days. It was a miracle his prosthetic leg was not broken, though one of the rods was dented. His head and face were roughly shaven with dried nicks of blood leftover, and he was now, for the first time in years, dressed in standard issue scrubs, far too thin against the lurking cold of the room. His scrubs were spray painted with yellow stripes, to show he was a prisoner.

He stared silently into the opposite wall, at the locked door.

The door opened with a creak.

In stepped Wallace Breen.

He looked just as he did on the television. Snowy hair, pleasantly aged yet strong face, cleanly, dressed in a simple gray-green suit over a black turtleneck sweater against the oncoming Romanian winter. He walked with a slight limp, which he was obviously working to cover up; but it did not escape Eli's notice.

Breen sat down in a chair opposite Eli. He was accompanied by two white uniformed Combine guards, faces hidden behind their gas masks. They seemed unnaturally rigid for human beings. They both held long, black stun batons. They positioned themselves in the two corners behind Eli.

"I would apologize," Breen began, almost solemnly, "but the last time I did that, you tried to strangle me."

"I guess we're even now," Eli croaked.

"Sarcasm does not become you," Breen replied. He knit his hands together on the table, and looked Eli directly in the eyes. He smiled slightly. "Those guards are highly specialized. I edited their Wernicke's areas: they can hear sounds, but cannot put them together into language. Scream, and they'll get agitated, but otherwise you may speak freely. I had all cameras unplugged, too…"

"That's disgusting, Wallace," Eli breathed.

"The cameras?"

"You know that I mean these two, poor boys behind me."

"They volunteered for the procedure," Breen said dismissively. "And they're both over twenty-one. You think I would operate on an adolescent brain?"

Eli was silent for a moment. Then, "I already said all that I have to say to you, sixteen years ago. This conversation is on you, Wallace. What do you want?"

Breen smiled again. "It's been so long; I am honestly interested in how you are doing, Eli."

Eli said nothing. A little trickle of blood had finally found its way out of his nose, and was getting caught on his graying, bristly mustache.

"How do you think your 'revolution' is going?" Breen continued, with infuriating casualty, as though they were having lunch at a bistro. "You see, I remember _exactly_ what you said sixteen years ago, when you resorted to violence against me, instead of reason: 'I will make the revolution, Wallace. We will burn you to ash.' So tell me, Eli: how is that going for you?"

Eli said nothing. His pupils were trained directly on Breen, refusing to look away for a second.

"Because I think it's going rather poorly," Breen finished.

Eli was silent as a stone.

Breen continued, businesslike: "I want your cooperation, Eli, just as I did before. You have refused to tell your flock to stand down - I suspect, because you'd rather all of humanity perish, rather than accept their new conditions for existence. In any case, I have it on, albeit, questionable authority, that you can yet be reasoned with. So here we are."

Eli's eyes were dark. He finally rasped, "You will have to kill me, Wallace."

"No, actually, I _won't_ ," Breen said, irritated again. "I mean, really, Eli: they're standing right behind you," and he gestured derisively towards the guards. "I don't have to _kill_ any of my opponents anymore. I can just _edit_ them. You can't very well run a revolution without your Wernicke's area, can you? Humans can't do much of _anything_ without language. ' _Let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech._ ' That's what they say God did to the builders of Babel; it was an awful shame. But, finally, globalization has been reversing God's judgement, and I intend to finish the process. ' _Behold, the people are one, and they have all one language…and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do._ ' Isn't that marvelous? You have to admit that's marvelous, or you're not human! We have to become _one_ as a species, Eli. We need _one_ language, _one_ species, _one_ culture, and nothing will be restrained from us -"

"You're a lunatic," Eli interjected softly.

"Oh, _come on_ , Eli," Breen snapped. "You're one to talk. Really! What do you think you've been doing these past sixteen years? The same thing as me: breaking down the language barriers, cultural barriers, hygienic and moral superstitions of your acolytes - you had no choice! You had no chance to 'burn me to ash,' unless you implicitly adopted my own philosophy! I've won the argument! And even after sixteen years you still can't see it? You can't see that humanity has one option left - to _combine_. Do I have to spell this out for you? Have you learned _nothing_?"

Eli narrowed his eyes. Breen was getting exasperated. Eli clung to that fact: Breen felt threatened, angry, desperate - yes, that was the case. It had to be. His arguments were the babblings of a desperate man - don't listen to them - he could not let Breen win, he could not let Breen into his head -

"Look around you, Eli," Breen continued, struggling to remain measured. "Look at what you've done, 'kicking against the pricks.' How many poor, pathetic souls have you lured away from the cities, to huddle underground and slave away in the service of your resentment? Do you know how difficult it has been to initiate the progress our species needs to survive, simply because _your movement's very existence_ drags morale down, like a screaming child on a car trip? You give all these people the imbecilic hope that they can somehow beat the Combine, and all the while you're doing the very same thing I'm doing - if your fanatics were not so eager to throw themselves into my soldiers' gunfire, I would have a thousand more trained recruits purged of culture and superstition! You just handed them over to me, but you just _had_ to make them hate me, you proffered me this gift and then threw it in the fire - you spiteful -! All you've done is make the whole process more painful! All you've done is create more opportunities for soldiers and civilians to die, when they could have been halfway to salvation by now! Why can't you _see_ that? You've had sixteen bloody years and you haven't learned a _goddamn_ _thing_!"

Breen was beginning to rave. His face was growing beet red, and a little fleck of saliva landed on the table between them.

Eli, struggling not to listen to Breen, said, with a hint of malice, "Gordon's back, you know."

Breen slammed his fist on the metal table.

He was silent. Then he recomposed himself, yet again; he looked more frustrated with himself than with Eli.

After a few more moments, he said, "I am well aware. We are tracking him right now. We know he is -"

"- in Ravenholm," Eli finished. "And he'll survive it."

"I highly doubt that. Even _we_ don't go to Ravenholm."

"We _are_ talking about the same Gordon Freeman, right?" Eli asked, almost laughing. He was beginning to enjoy himself, while Breen was growing proportionally discontent.

"Oh, you mean _that_ Gordon Freeman?" Breen replied with venomous sarcasm. "The ponytailed asocial maladjusted Aspie, who nearly lost his bloody mind when we had a surprise fire drill? You're talking about _him_ , right?"

"No, in fact," Eli replied, almost sly. "I mean the Gordon Freeman who single-handedly survived the United States Marine Corps, and an alien ecosystem, and blew up your old rocket field for fun."

"Oh! I see. Well, I'm sorry to tell burst your bubble, but there is no way in heaven or hell _that_ Gordon Freeman survived the Resonance Cascade." Breen readjusted himself in his seat. "Your "Free Man," your messianic terrorist, is some sort of bizarre Vortigaunt trick, and it's working more than I'd like to admit -"

"Take it from me, Wallace," Eli interrupted. "It's not a trick. It's him."

Breen's look grew dark.

"If that's true," he said, almost growling now, "then you know, as well as I, that humanity has a much worse problem than the Combine."

Eli simply smiled.

"What," Breen retorted, "you think he's on _your_ side?" But after a few more moments, Breen's eyes widened with realization. "Wait - your look…why, you really _do_ think that!"

And Breen began laughing.

Eli had no idea what was so funny. He wondered if Breen had finally finished going insane.

"You never could - oh heavens -" Breen began, his aged chest heaving from the strain of his laughter, "- you never did...you couldn't…haha! - You never could factor _infinity_ into your work, haha, you never could handle _paradox_ , you really haven't learned _anything_ , anything at all! Oh heavens…Ah Eli -!" Breen suddenly exclaimed. Eli refocused his attention. Breen's expression was heartbreaking. A slight smile, barely managing to lift underneath a burden no one man could ever shoulder alone - suddenly, before Eli, was Wallace Breen from Black Mesa: old Wallace, pretentious, eloquent, and unbearably brilliant, charmingly avaricious, successfully ambitious…old Wallace Breen, the best of them, the best of Black Mesa, and everyone knew it. Wallace Breen's expression was of such _longing_ , as he said to Eli Vance, "Those were the days, weren't they…? Weren't they…"

He sighed deeply and looked down for a moment.

"Well, it hardly matters now," Breen said. "I knew you would not tell me anything. I suppose I simply wanted to…have a rational discussion, for old time's sake. Hopeless romantic that I am, haha! Ah…"

"Why are you laughing?" Eli asked quietly.

"The joke is on you, so sorry," Breen said, surprisingly irritable again. "You always liked Schrödinger, precisely because he _didn't_ believe in paradox. He thought his cat experiment was a good _reductio ad absurdum_ of quantum theory; too bad for him, absurdity is precisely what is at the very bottom of everything…from our perspective, of course. It wouldn't be absurd to a god, I suppose…"

"Wallace, Gordon is obviously on my side..."

"Oh, indeed! Indeed he is! Ha! You're an imbecile sometimes, you know that? The mathematics is sound - you know it as well as I, don't you? You ran the calculations first, remember? But reality is not matching up with the theory…"

"You're not…" Eli started. "You're talking about Ripley's conjecture? When I ran numbers on Gordon's resume? That was a joke, Wallace! You were laughing with me, it was numerology for quantum physicists! What are you _talking_ about?"

"Did you know," Breen interrupted, as though he couldn't hear Eli, "there were some ancient Greeks who saw numbers as divine: the Pythagoreans - they believed that everything could be expressed as numbers, that the square root of two must be another number, something between one and two: maybe 6/5? Or 61/5? Or 611/5? But it can't be expressed as a number - not _really_. It can only be roughly approximated, merely indicated by symbols – 1.41421356 … What a shock for them…"

"You've lost your mind," Eli stammered. "Gordon's not a Ripley Point - that stuff is complete nonsense, Wallace…"

"Oh, I hope to the starry heavens you're right, Eli. I sincerely do. But I tell you: if that really is Gordon Freeman, then he is a Ripley Point. He's Schrödinger's cat. He's...well, he's a problem, don't you know? Ha ha...

"I think I'm done with you Dr. Vance. You'll be taken to Nova Prospekt for assimilation. I'll make a note to alter your Wernicke's area."

And Breen laughed coldly as he left, his old voice echoing in Eli's disbelieving ears.

* * *

 _Three days before: at the beginning of the siege on Black Mesa East._

Alyx and Gordon were twenty minutes down the passage to Ravenholm. It was fifty-five minutes since they left the storage room. Those intermittent thirty-five minutes had been spent seizing supplies: both medical and practical. Alyx's bullet wounds desperately needed Vortigaunt blood, and they both needed food and water - preparation for the unclear journey ahead of them.

It was chaos throughout Black Mesa East - as good as overrun, so far as Gordon was concerned. And concerned he certainly was.

Gordon returned from a short reconnaissance down a dark staircase. Alyx was slumped tiredly against an earthy wall, trying not to move her healing leg.

"The bottom is flooded about a foot high," Gordon Freeman reported. "It's tapped into an underground stream of some kind."

"You'll have to carry me," concluded Alyx, smiling slightly.

Without speaking, Gordon stooped down, and reached his arms under her knees and back, like a Prince about to sweep her off her feet.

"Um, Gordon…"

He strained and groaned for a moment, heaving up her deceptively slender frame.

"Well, okay…" she said.

"What?" Gordon breathed.

"I'd probably…be easier to carry on your back."

"Oh, yeah," and he rather promptly laid her back down. Then, crouching, he proffered his back and neck, which Alyx draped herself across. Gordon stood up, looping his arms around her legs, trying to be gentle with her bandages. Nevertheless, she squeezed her wrists in pain.

"Sorry," Gordon said.

"Mnit's fine…"

He began crossing the subterranean stream.

Gordon turned suddenly, like a dog perking up its ears. The water sloshed around his ankles, and the splash echoed down the hall. He was looking back from where they came.

"What is it?" Alyx asked.

"Thought I heard someone. Maybe someone decided to follow us after all..."

Alyx said nothing. This was the third time he'd hoped against hope - it was no use comforting him. She only prayed he wouldn't go rushing back to check.

* * *

Gordon had attempted to start an evacuation, through the Ravenholm passage. While Alyx had administered her own Vortigaunt shot, he had guarded the infirmary doorway with a stolen machine gun and pistol, all the while crying, "Ravenholm! Passage to Ravenholm! We're escaping through Ravenholm!" But not one of his fellow humans or Vortigaunts heeded him.

He would seize the shirts of retreating soldiers, and beg them, "There's passage through Ravenholm!"

One replied, "We know! We know!"

"Aren't you _coming_ then?"

"We don't go to Ravenholm!"

And they left Gordon speechless, in the unventilated fog of gun-smoke.

" _Mejor muerte segura que_ Ravenholm!" someone else added, as they passed.

"Gordon," Alyx had groaned. "We need to _move_."

Gordon hadn't answered.

"Gordon! _Please_!"

 _Nous avons déjà choisi._

He looked away from the fleeing rebels, from their scared faces, and met Alyx's pleading eyes. And it flooded back to him, much to his embarrassment as a scientist: the kiss -

 _Not the time to think about it. Not the time, for heaven's sake…_

A hot fog was filling up the right side of his brain - yes, the right side of his scalp actually felt warm: all through his brow and forehead, too - there was no reaction from his groin, of course, and no sweat, either - the citadel was doing its job – but the fog was so thick...

There she was, she was waiting - his soul was reaching out towards her - _don't think about it, we have work to do, c'mon..._

* * *

Ten minutes down the passage, Gordon and Alyx had crawled underneath a heavy garage-style door. Then, they had made their way down a pitch-black corridor, with frequent stops for Alyx, so the Vortigaunt blood didn't get too excited in her veins. Finally, they had reached the stone staircase, with a red stop sign hung above it, and a haphazard blockade of wooden, domestic furniture, like an exploded antique shop.

"Where did all this come from?" Gordon asked, unsure if Alyx would answer. But she did: "From Ravenholm," she said. And Gordon had to infer, _They set up a blockade on their way out…they used furniture from Ravenholm to…seal something in…?_ Gordon wanted to ask more, of course, but Alyx's leg wounds were worse than Gordon's had been - he suspected there was damage to her bones, and the Vortigaunt healing required more from her.

Gordon had set her gently against a wall, removing the gravity gun from her back. Then, taking aim at the blockade of furniture -

The gun screeched, and an entire hutch was dragged violently from the pile, snapping one of its legs against the stone wall. It halted right before the gun, weightless in its grip.

Gordon oriented it back from where they had come -

Za- _BANG_.

A bolt of lightning, and the hutch flew like a cannonball - into the far wall, exploding into splinters. The sound echoed back and forth through the hall.

Screeeeuch….scrape, scratch….Za- _BANG_.

Screeeeuch….scrape, scratch - "Mind your head, Alyx," -….Za- _BANG_.

Screeeeuch….scrape…Za- _BANG_.

It took a good ten minutes to clear a path.

A coffee table shattered against the far wall.

"Thing packs a punch," Gordon said, grinning.

Alyx nodded slightly, her teeth clenched in pain as she struggled not to rub her aching-itching-healing leg.

Gordon regarded her silently.

"Alyx," he said, kneeling down. "Why does no one want to go to Ravenholm?"

"Headcrabs," she answered immediately. "Sorry, I thought someone had told you…Combine found out it had some connections…with the rebel base," she winced, "and Breen ordered they shell it. I wasn't there…it was years ago, I think I was sixteen."

Gordon felt his stomach drop a little at the mention of headcrabs.

"Ravenholm was the first time they weaponized them," Alyx continued. "And they overestimated how many would be needed…"

Gordon was rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. An image opened up, involuntarily, before his mind: _of a red, hazy sun in a green nebulous sky, of tie-dyed mesas, and that four-legged behemoth, that single enormous scrotum, that wail it released from the chambers of its carapace…_

Suddenly, he finished Alyx's sentence, "And the Combine shot - let me guess - a hundred canisters of headcrabs into a single, backwards Romanian town. Twenty, thirty headcrabs a canister; so, thousands of headcrabs at once - How wide of a radius does the Combine have to secure now, to prevent an outbreak?"

Alyx, somewhat surprised, answered, "About one hundred miles, last time I checked."

"And how big was the town?" Gordon continued.

"Only seven miles across, at most. It's fuzzy after that, obviously. No one was going near it after…after the survivors got back. It was…well, anyway, the headcrab zone was up to seventy miles in only a year."

" _Seventy_ miles in a year?"

"The spread slowed after that. The Combine finally got a handle on it."

Gordon started laughing, but the laughter was cold and it did not make Alyx feel comfortable. "Sorry," Gordon said. "It isn't funny…but they probably tried gassing the area as soon as they realized what they'd done. Breen was probably working off of data from the first Black Mesa, from the Lambda complex. Lambda thought mustard gas was the most effective means for killing them. And they were right - sulfur mustard takes about two minutes to kill a headcrab - but they had only tested headcrabs one by one. In a group, the moment they realize they're dying, they start breeding at an insane rate. They're hermaphroditic, so they just fertilize each other's eggs. Half a minute to smell the gas, half a minute to prepare -"

"And then a one-minute headcrab orgy?"

Gordon laughed darkly again. "The circle of life."

Alyx was quiet for a moment. "Then, their eggs grow in their corpses," she said, "and as soon as the gas is gone, they eat their way out. Kleiner told me about it. It took him years to figure it out, because they're so dangerous - how did you…? Did you see it during the Black Mesa Incident…?"

"Not in Black Mesa, no," Gordon replied. "On Xen. I had to…pass through an…area. I saw their whole life cycle, or rather, life cycles. There's different possibilities, apparently. Some of what I saw didn't make...sense."

Alyx nodded.

"I never really liked Biology," Gordon added.

Alyx blinked. "You mean, in general?"

"No, no, Biology class. In school."

"Oh, right. School, right."

"I was good at it," Gordon continued, "I was good at all the sciences, actually...but I preferred physics." Gordon looked at Alyx curiously, though trying not to shine his flashlight directly in her face. She looked sad, pensive, even bitter.

"How's your leg…?" Gordon asked.

"Hurts," Alyx replied. Then suddenly, "We're going into Ravenholm, to find 'Chekov'."

"Yes. That's what Eli said."

"Something about me being a good hacker."

Gordon hesitated. "Yes."

Silence.

"I came to your room so late for a reason," Gordon finally said, mentally throwing his hands up in the air. "Your Dad and Mossman have been downloading your hacked data and sending it to Ravenholm, I assume to Chekov. Ravenholm sounds uninhabitable, so Chekov is probably a computer. Anyway, Eli and Mossman then corrupt the data, and tell you it was corrupt to begin with. So Eli is probably sending us to go get it, because he can't really continue his project anymore, now that Black Mesa East is compromised. I saw them doing this, and ran back to tell you, but you were..."

Silence.

"If you need things to throw," Gordon said, "I could get you something."

"That isn't funny," Alyx sighed.

 _Crap._ "It wasn't meant to be. Sorry."

"No, no, it's...listen," Alyx said, eyes closed. "Gordon, what _precisely_ did you see?"

"I saw the diagnostics on the computer screen - they were pretty clear. Then Mossman came in, and then Eli, both talking like -"

"Mossman came in first?" Alyx interrupted.

"Yes, but they were both...Eli seemed to know about the download happening -"

"But maybe he didn't…"

"I'm sorry, but -"

"No, no, listen…" Alyx winced again, "that's not how he...he wouldn't...we don't _know_ that. We don't know. And I can't…" she said something sharply, under her breath, "we don't...listen, it doesn't matter. Thanks for telling me. But it doesn't matter. We've been sitting here too long anyway -"

"Alyx…"

Alyx was trying to stand up, but halfway up her eyes grew wide; she gasped in pain, clutching at her leg, and slid back down the wall. She snarled something under her breath. Then, "We don't...there's nothing we can...nothing we can do about that now. I can't think about that now. I don't care. Who cares, right? Eli's probably dead. They're both probably dead."

"He's not dead," Gordon countered. "You sent Dog to him. Dog's a tank."

"Dog _is_ a tank," she agreed wearily.

"Darn straight, or whatever," Gordon offered.

"We're going to see Chekov. That'll...that'll explain everything. That's what Dad said, right?"

"Sure, I think so. We're going to find Chekov."

"In Ravenholm."

"In Ravenholm, yes."

Alyx asked, "Are you scared?"

Gordon gave a hollow laugh. "Terrified."

Alyx smiled slightly. "But you keep being brave."

"What else am I going to do?" Gordon replied. "Are you scared?"

Alyx didn't answer for a moment.

"You have no idea," she said finally.

Silence.

Steam and smoke were pouring from Gordon's overheating mind. _Do it, do it, do it, do it..._

"We better...or, _you_ better get moving -" Alyx began, when suddenly, and a bit awkwardly, Gordon leaned over and pecked her, warmly, on the cheek. He drew quickly back, horrified to see her expression: but she had a surprised smile, and a wry raise of the eyebrow.

Gordon cleared his throat. "I'm going to check the path ahead, down the stairs, just a second."

"Oh, you charmer," Alyx said, almost laughing. "You told me you'd never kissed before."

But Gordon had already disappeared.

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs was a chain-link gateway with another sign - "Do Not Enter" - fastened to it. The floor was flooded with dark water; it flowed very slowly to the right, seeping into an increasingly porous stone wall.

"That water will infect your wounds," Gordon had suggested, as if nothing had happened.

And thus, he ended up carrying her across. She was on his back, and the gravity gun was on hers.

It was silent and dark. The only light was Gordon's suit. The water ruffled like silk around his armored calves, and occasionally, he saw something tiny and blind wriggle between them. Now and then he felt small round pebbles under his boots.

"Must be an underground river nearby," Gordon suggested, wondering if he needed to keep talking to her. "The tunnel was breached somehow."

"Worms," Alyx said. "They damage things sometimes."

Gordon noticed three little water creepers at once, squiggling around his legs. "You mean these things?"

"Hm? No, big worms. Really big. Black Mesa has a force field that keeps them away. But we shut it down for the Ravenholm passage, after the...incident...to conserve power. But don't worry, they're never _that_ big. We'll get through-"

BEEP BEEP

clickclickclickclickclick -

Gordon stumbled around, almost dropping Alyx in the water. She blew through her teeth in pain.

Gordon already had his pistol out with his right arm - But all he saw in the darkness were two large, mechanized turrets, held on tripod legs in the water, against a stone wall. They had red eyes - motion sensors - and were desperately trying to fire at Gordon with depleted magazines.

clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick

clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick

… _.what were they shooting at?_ Gordon thought immediately.

…

"Oh no," Alyx groaned aloud.

Gordon became aware of a sickening odor, fogging lazily in the stale cavern air.

"Ah… _jeez_ …" Alyx whispered.

Gordon turned around -

In the pale circle of his flashlight: bones and meat.

Piles of meat-draped skeletons, rising out of the shallow water, up-current.

They were covered in thousands of the little blind creepers - little troglodytes, white leeches or bottom-feeders, silently suckling the last morsels of rotten flesh from the old corpses' moldering bones. Rotting flesh, rotten meat - the odor was only made bearable by the little scavengers' work, having digested a good portion of the meat years ago.

Gordon looked down at his feet. He realized that he hadn't been stepping on pebbles, but on bullets, dragged gradually down the current from the clean-picked bones of the bottommost bodies. Thousands of dull bullets…

Gordon waded his way through the boneyard. The hazard suit protected him, and he strove to keep Alyx's legs high enough that she didn't brush anything.

Waterlogged marrow crumbled under his footfalls.

 _The turrets clearly are responsible,_ Gordon reasoned. _All of the bodies are facing, more-or-less, the same direction: away from Ravenholm. But their distribution suggests uncoordinated motion. And I don't see any bodies that haven't been significantly rotted and digested. So this all happened a while ago. An uncoordinated group moving away from Ravenholm into the oncoming fire of turrets, until the turrets ran out of ammunition._

 _Zombies. They were all zombies._

* * *

They came to a staircase that led out of the water. They had left the boneyard behind. Alyx dropped to the ground and began limping across the dirt and stone floor. After a few minutes, they came to a row of parallel railways, each stretching down a perfectly straight corridor into the fog of shadows far away. Scattered next to the tracks were a dozen makeshift mine carts, with front lights and moldy cushions fixed into their beds.

Gordon set Alyx against a wall.

"I remember this," she said. "Four-hour trip, sitting in those things, when they're going fast. Two days on foot. Took us two years to build this tunnel."

"How?" Gordon asked, as he examined one of the carts.

"The Vortigaunts did the heavy lifting…I wasn't allowed to watch because I was a little brat and it was dangerous. But they did _something_ \- and it sure was something."

Gordon hesitated. "How are you feeling? How's the leg?"

"I'm fine. Just…tired. If you put a cart on the tracks, I think I remember how to start it going."

After a few minutes of heaving, Gordon lined one up on the middle rail. He picked up Alyx again, and set her as carefully as he could into the cart. She looked in pain, but didn't vocalize it. Gordon climbed in with her, just in case.

There was a sort of dashboard on the front, like a pilot's cockpit. Alyx was experimenting with the dials.

snap CRACK

"Oh!"

fizzzzzzzzzz

kraKOW

The mine cart leapt twenty feet forward down the track. Gordon and Alyx were lashed back and then forward. Gordon nearly cracked his head on the front edge of the cart.

"Sorry! You alright?" Alyx asked.

"Fine."

"Just a second, it just had a lot of - anyway…"

fizzzzzzzzzz

crackle crackle

It began moving again, with a more gradual acceleration.

The pair of them settled back in the cramped cart, their sides pressed together. Gordon gazed at the dim ceiling as the cart picked up speed. The light on the pockmarked stone looked like a revolving night sky.

"Four hours?" he said; the cart was surprisingly quiet, so he only had to raise his voice slightly.

"Four hours," Alyx confirmed. "I'm going to sleep." And she attempted to rest her head against Gordon's plated shoulder.

"Sorry, I'm not much a pillow," he said dryly.

"Here, not a problem -" and somewhat awkwardly, in the small space of the cart, she slid off her leather jacket, and turned it inside out, so the faux-wool was showing. She plumped this upon his shoulder, and purposively nestled against him, shivering a little in her old, thin sweatshirt.

Gordon, methodically, removed the plating from his arm and shoulder; his arm was bare and goosefleshed in the whirling cavern air. "That help?" he asked.

"It does, thanks." Alyx tried to wrap her jacket a little around his arm so it wouldn't be so cold.

Gordon twitched his nose.

 _Should I be feeling something right now?_

 _I don't really have a baseline to compare this to - to see what psychological effects the Citadel has…_

 _But for that matter, I don't have a baseline for non-Gordon-Freeman people, either._

There was that hot fog, for sure, that made his skull tingle. But now there was also a dull throb in his chest and stomach, like the last, lonely cinder in a fireplace, buried under piles and piles of ash, struggling not to go out, optimizing every whiff of oxygen it could get - Perhaps it had always been there, since he had come under the Citadel, but his experimental kiss had dusted off some of the ash and given it a little more hope and life.

By now Alyx was dozing; her weight pressed against his.

Gordon looked at the fake stars on the ceiling, rushing eternally past them.

* * *

The end of the line.

Gordon and Alyx had both fallen asleep - Gordon's head had sunk down onto Alyx's, her hair serving as a very thin pillow. He was snoring slightly. When the cart reached the end, it gave off a loud _KRACK_ as the breaks kicked in and jerked them both forwards and awake. Hearts pounding, it took them both a minute to remember where they were, and what was happening.

"Good morning to you too," Gordon muttered absently to the cart. His glasses were askew and sleep was still dragging down his eyes. Alyx blinked; her hair was matted and rustled, and her jaw slack. She had left a damp patch of drool on her coat wool. Gordon, to his sudden horror, realized he had also left a little drool on the crown of Alyx's head. He attempted, as surreptitiously as he could, to wipe it off with the sleeve of Alyx's coat, or the cloth of her backpack. But she had already reached up to straighten her hair a bit - and felt the bit of drool. She blinked, and then, almost against her will, started laughing behind her hand.

"I'm glad you're taking it so well," Gordon said, starting to smile along with her.

But slowly both of their smiles faded, as they remembered where they were. They looked into each other's eyes, then forwards, to a broken elevator, and a service ladder, leading up to the surface.

"This is it," Alyx said soberly.

Alyx's leg was, as far as they could tell, reasonably healed. She only had a slight limp, but assured Gordon the juice was past the window of danger.

Alyx: their backpack of supplies, a 9 millimeter, a Colt Python, a Bowie knife, and the Gravity Gun on her back.

Gordon: the hazard suit, a SMG, and a bloodstained crowbar.

They stood before the service ladder, which ironically _ascended_ into the pitch heavens of the cavern.

Gordon suddenly felt a peck on his cheek.

"For luck," Alyx said.

* * *

Headcrabs.

Or, as Gordon thought of them, "frog ticks."

Like a starfish, they were legs attached to a gaping, circular maw.

On Xen, Gordon had discovered several kinds of fungus, which blossomed into balloon-sized knobs. Headcrabs suckered onto these knobs for days at a time, stretching over them and clamping down, piercing the rind with their finger-fangs and cartilage circle-jaw. Like a tick, they would drain the knob of its lifeblood, and replace it with various kinds of bile, pumped directly into the fungal channels. Purple, blue, green, yellow – these injections caused the fungus to grow and die in different ways and directions. Headcrabs were gardeners.

Occasionally, a headcrab would fuse with a fungal nipple, like a male angler fish. It would half digest into a splotch on its rind. The whole growth would then detach from its mother root, sprout legs, and metamorphose into a monster – a headcrab without a maw, but instead, a dangling sac, dripping black bile. Headcrabs would flock to it, sucking up the droplets of ebony honey, and vainly trying to grip and couple with the swinging, slippery sac, falling and getting smashed underfoot. The great scrotumed demon would parade around the hive for weeks, a Bacchic god of orgiastic pandemonium – until finally it starved to death, and was lustily devoured, like a spider by its hungry, desperate children.

That was how it was on Xen.

But on Earth, the closest thing to a fungal node was a human head. The headcrabs latched on instinctively, drained blood and cerebrospinal fluid, and, attempting to catalyze growth in the "node," they pumped great quantities of green slime into the host's veins and body cavities. The slime was a mutagen targeting nucleotides, causing bizarre but characteristic developments: lengthened fingers, split abdomen forming a semi-functional jaw, and a remarkable resilience to trauma. The headcrab could also learn, by means unclear to Freeman, how to manipulate the host's brain, and clumsily, recklessly, violently, drive its movements. On Xen, they always fought to defend their wormy fungal garden, like bees defending their hive. On Earth, they fought out of confused instinct: to vent their irritation, to protect an unclear nest, to half feed a half-maw struggling to gain sentience from sternum to navel. They were hornets with an ever-missing hive.

Sometimes, they would abandon their hosts in order to mate, or because the body stopped producing nectar for them – that is, cerebrospinal fluid.

According to Lambda lab reports, cerebrospinal fluid acted as an addictive amphetamine for headcrabs. If too much was consumed, then the headcrab began to undergo certain changes. They became faster, thinner, lighter, more ambitious, and far hungrier.

As for the formation of scrotumed crabs, Gordon could only remember one file that may have pertained to it, when he was ransacking the Lambda labs. But all of its information was redacted, and it was labeled to be destroyed that very day.

* * *

The ladder was ten stories high. They had only been one hundred feet underground; but it was a grueling climb, nonetheless. They finally heaved their way to the top, collapsed, and rested.

They were in a small wooden building, a kind of multi-room shed. Without the hazard suit's flashlight they were blind in the utter darkness of the space. But under its yellow-white beam, Alyx noted that the place had been hastily boarded off with hammer and nail – and then just as hastily torn through by the advancing…hordes.

Gordon remembered too well the resilience and single-minded persistence of the headcrabs' drones. Bones were of much less consequence than raw muscle mass and tendons. _A hundred foot fall would only stop them for a few minutes,_ Gordon thought, _while the headcrab's slime bound up the fractures. And then, more zombies could fall on top of them, cushioned from the full blow, and suffer less damage. It's only when they march into the turrets that they start dropping for good; enough bullets will rip apart muscle and tendon as well as bone. And the headcrabs themselves._

The scene reconstructed itself in his mind: _the drones broke through to chase the survivors, fell down the shaft, continued along, ran into the turrets, fell by the truckloads until the bullets ran out. The rest retreated, or the headcrabs abandoned their hosts to escape. Headcrabs are mostly cartilage, or something like it: so the dead crabs wouldn't last nearly as long as the human bones._

"Gordon?" Alyx inquired.

"Sorry, just thinking."

They advanced through the building, passing through two more breached doorways. Rusty red stains were smeared up and down the walls and floor. Gordon turned off the flashlight as they approached the exit.

They stepped out of the shadows, into the diffused glow of a cloud-veiled moon, that barely lit the yard in a foggy twilight. The December air was frosty; Gordon thought he could see his breath in the dim night. The lot was overgrown with dirty weeds – it was fenced in by houses: a quaint assemblage of brick and wood buildings, hugging together in old European style, with only a few alleyways between them. On the far side was a dark, brambly tree; Gordon almost thought he could see a rope-swing hanging from its branches. The world was silent, almost at peace: merely a cemetery.

Gordon took a step forward –

He felt something odd beneath his boot.

He looked down: there was a wide, half-crumpled, metal sign.

"Ravenholm".

A cold breeze passed through the lot, like the breath of a ghost. Alyx breathed in sharply as it bit her face. The far tree rustled quietly, the grasses swayed and shushed.

But Gordon and Alyx both twitched their noses – there was, carried on the breeze, that sick-sweet odor of rotten flesh and flies…

…

Ba-ZZAP.

LIGHTS.

It nearly blinded both Gordon and Alyx, who leapt a foot in the air. Gordon couldn't help but let out a yelp. Five lamps, scattered through the lot, had simultaneously, and spontaneously, cracked on. They buzzed like bug-catchers; yellow as oil, but compared with the twilight, bright as day. They cast their yellow glow, however dimly, against the billowing clouds above, blazing like a cheap carnival for passing air traffic.

A small murder of blue-black crows took flight, cawing angrily, as they winged over Gordon and Alyx, over the shed they had just exited.

"What -?!" Alyx hissed, staring around them.

Gordon said nothing – he had taken another look at the rope swing.

It was not attached to a swing. It was attached to a human pelvis.

The legs were still there, dangling like marionette limbs. It still had its mildewed jeans on, now greened from bleeding rot.

Gordon felt sick. Even a little dizzy. He ignored it, keeping his gun at the ready.

 _There are survivors here,_ Gordon thought. _People with engineering skills. They must have placed a sensor camera somewhere. But…why? Is it an alarm? Headcrabs react more to sound than light…_

"We need to go," Alyx was saying. "This is a bad start. I don't like it. C'mon." She was already moving forwards, her pistol and knife at the ready. Gordon followed after with the SMG, eyes darting around, mapping their surroundings instinctively. In the new light, he could see two half-buried rocket cannisters, long opened and emptied, crashed in corners of the yard.

They approached the human legs. Directly above them, a lamp had been drilled into the tree, like a stage spotlight. The rope swayed slightly in a passing breeze; multiple shadows danced beneath them on the ground. The odor was overwhelming – for Gordon, horribly familiar. The rope was attached to an iron hook jammed into the pelvic bone. Gordon could now see how the grayed tissues were coated with a green-tinted gel – he could trace the faint, inhuman odor of it, hidden in the pungency of the corpse: a sour, pickled smell.

"These legs are from a zombie," he said, almost to himself. "The headcrab's preservatives have kept the flesh on the bones."

Alyx took a deep breath. "Chekov's work? Whoever he is?"

Gordon didn't answer, not even to shrug.

BzzzTAPzzzz—

They both jumped again. Another light had crackled on, from within a nearby building: a wooden building, sloppily boarded up. Yellow light leaked through the cracks.

"There _must_ be motion sensors," Gordon voiced.

"There," Alyx said, pointing. Gordon looked, and after a moment caught sight of a small, black tube lens attached to the roof of the workshop, peering down at the tree and its visitors.

Gordon nodded.

"What are they for?" Alyx muttered.

"Dunno," Gordon murmured. "Let's go ask him." He approached the building with the crowbar drawn, and made short work of the rotten boards.

The inside was a small dingy workshop, with a workbench, iron railings for storing tools, and –

Half cloaked in shadow, was the upper torso of a man, pinned to the far wall by a foot-wide sawblade.

"Found the rest of that guy," Gordon said, almost inaudibly.

The rusty serrated disk was embedded a good four inches into the wall, and now fully supported the weight of the corpse's upper half, which lay half-frozen in _rigor mortis_ upon it. The hands were mutated – the fingers elongated into freakish claws. The head was twisted up at ninety degrees, so that the face could stare directly at Gordon and Alyx with long emptied sockets, and death-white, mummified features, their expression forever testifying of _agony_. It smelled faintly sour – the facial skin looked strangely wrinkled – suckered…and blood all over the walls -

He glanced around the workshop: there were long propane tanks stacked on the walls, and tables covered in cables, circuits, scrap metal, sawblades, motors…

Alyx pulled out the gravity gun. With a couple sudden jerks, the sawblade embedded in the wall sprung free, and raced into the gun's grasp, positioned horizontally so Alyx could still see ahead. The torso fell unceremoniously to the floor with a gross thud.

She was already on the move. She seemed impatient, restless. Gordon could not blame her. She turned a corner to enter a neighboring room, lit only by the indirect light of the previous.

Gordon approached the fallen body.

Not long after the Incident began, Gordon had broken into Bill Guthrie's lab, shattering the glass with a crowbar…Guthrie had been in a seizure at his desk, as a headcrab had engulfed his head, pumping him…Gordon cut into the beast with a scalpel, and so much green slime sprayed out, like from a pressure hose – So much cartilage to cut through – Gordon got the thing off his head and face, but his neck had already been snapped, his skin stretched and split and…and…

 _What on earth flung the sawblade?_ Gordon thought suddenly, absently…

" _Gordon!_ " Alyx was hissing, almost desperately. "Please, snap out of it! Please!"

Gordon looked over at Alyx, his glasses opaque from the lamp's glare. Alyx had crouched next to him, shaking him by the shoulder, looking desperate, eyes a little wide, her cool demeanor suddenly showing cracks.

"Flashbacks?" she asked, calming down.

"I'm sorry. Yes."

"Any way to not have them?"

"I'm sorry. I will be fine."

"Okay. But the next room is…not fun."

 _She doesn't want to be alone?_ Gordon thought.

The smell had grown almost unbearable. Sick, rotten, raw pork; Gordon could not imagine what a humid summer would do to the odor.

The room, only half lit, was scattered with bodies.

Headcrab zombies.

Seven or eight full bodies, with four or five pairs of legs strewn about like lost Legos. _What is cutting them in half?_ Gordon wondered. He then, to his surprise, felt a convulsion in his stomach, and he threw up a little bit onto the floor. Alyx looked at him, eyes wide again, on edge. But Gordon shook his head and waved his hand. "I'm fine," he said lowly. "Just the smell, I think."

The eight zombies: their heads were enveloped in headcrabs, motionless as stones – or stick bugs hiding from sight. They were brown and fleshy and clutched to their victims with awful strength, their foreclaws almost gripping onto the clavicles like roller coaster safety bars. Four bodies were leaned against the walls, two were face down, and two face up, sprawled on the floor in pools of blood and mucus. They were all still, somehow, clothed, but in the most mildewed, rotten torn-up flannels and jeans and slacks and linens and jackets one could imagine; they hung from their gray bodies like thick cobwebs.

At the sound of Gordon's voice, one of the bodies twitched, and fell over. There was a faint, low, garbled croak.

Gordon made a motion forwards. "I think they're conserving energy," he murmured. "I don't see from their anatomy how they could function long-term in the cold."

Alyx was breathing heavily, and she nodded, moving forwards. She quietly released the sawblade from the gravity gun, to give her more maneuverability.

They made their way into a hallway. Several more zombies were leaned against the walls, silent as corpses.

"Let's try another way," Gordon murmured. He stepped into another room, turning on his chest flashlight. Another zombie was lying on a bed, a wretched, bony arm dangling off the side. It was a man – he was bare chested. The bones pressed up against the skin. The fingers were long, bony, sharp – and the chest was split wide open, something red was half falling out –

As they passed, Gordon watched as the hand slowly reached up to rest beside the rest of the body.

Another room –

BZZAP.

Alyx and Gordon flinched. Another light had buzzed on, revealing a large rectangular space. A table nearby was covered in sawblades. There were several pairs of legs scattered across the floor, the upper halves missing. And in the center was a strange contraption: a pivot the size of a car motor, rigged to a pinwheel blade, the size of an airplane propeller, rusty, but sharp and ruthless looking. If the pinwheel began to spin, it would be horrific. And it was coated with dry blood and mucus.

"What _is_ this?" Alyx murmured, almost angry.

"I take it this wasn't here."

"I don't know, I was never in this building. But it – there is no reason…" She coughed as quietly as she could into her arm, "It's a trap. Chekov has made zombie traps…that's what this is…"

…

A voice from overhead.

It was soft at first, but came upon them like the frosty wind, rattling through the rotting shop – it was guttural, deep, base, and hoarse from shouting -

" _Căci zilele vieții mele au dispărut ca fumul, și oasele mele au căzut ca cenușă! Și toate impuritățile mele să fie ca și combustibil pentru focul acela, până când nu rămâne nimic - NUMAI LUMINA!_ "

The last phrase was hurled out from the hidden man's lungs – he was somewhere on the rooftops above –

There were moans, throughout the building.

"For my days…are gone, like smoke…" Alyx whispered, translating, "and my…bones, they are ashes…"

 _Moooaaaahhhhh_

"…all my impurities, they should burn, or be in the fire, until nothing remains…"

 _Thump._

"— except the Light."

 _THUMP-CRACK._

A section of aged wall was half-split open by a ferocious effort on its opposite side.

Long-fingered hands were reaching through, tearing skin against the splintered wood.

MOOOOOAAAAHHHHHHHH

More zombies were stumbling their way up towards the doorway where Alyx and Gordon had entered. The only way out left was a boarded-up door on the room's far side, across from the split wall.

MOOOOOAAAAAAHHHHHH

Gordon already knew the situation. He had, without Alyx even realizing, seized the gravity gun from her back, and was firing wantonly at the boarded door. Mustard yellow lightning leapt from its pinchers like a chameleon tongue, and blasted the boards inwards. Splinters flew –

"Gordon!"

He caught sight of it in his peripheral vision: the bottom maw of a headcrab.

Terror seized him. It had been a long little while since he had seen this and felt it hit his skin BANGBANG piercing in his ears it felt like dried fish but then wetness and the smell of blood and sweet rot his eyes were blurry –

He was on the ground.

 _THUMP-CRACK_. The wall was splitting more. Two things leapt out. He could see with highly blurry vision – where were his glasses? Oh there they were. How were his glasses not broken yet? Oh there was a chip on them. "Gordon! Gordon!" He couldn't feel the headcrab anymore why was that he didn't know – He did not expect to react quite like this it had gotten so close they had never gotten so close before he hadn't ever let them get that close heaven help me it almost had me it was so slimy and bloody I felt its teeth on my skull heaven heaven help…

"GORDON!"

Something was touching his skull again.

Gordon leapt half to his knees – he hollered involuntarily - his arm reached up – he seized the leg of something – he swung it around, dashed it against the floor –

Another was flying towards him – BANGBANG – Alyx shot it out of the air – There was another on the floor – SLAMcRunCH with the crowbar – a splatter of yellow-green like pickle relish –

But everything was still blurry, too blurry – Where did his glasses go –

 _THUMP-CRRRACKKKK-SHUMMMMM_

The section of wall fell – There was a twisted, blurry knot of moaning zombies -They moaned as one…muffled human mouths and diaphragms…wheezing into the night… _aaaahhhhhhhooooooo…_ The moaning was joined throughout the house, like an echo: _aaaaaahhhhhhooooooo…_ The bodies, faces wrapped in grey and beige, crawled to their broken feet and came stumbling, tumbling, lurching forwards – climbing over each other like two-legged rats –

 _AAAAAAHHHHHHHHOOOOOOO_

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Gordon let the SMG riddle them. They were to him a wall of fuzzy flesh – an impressionist painting - Casings covered the floor, bursts of green fluid spattered everywhere, some of the zombies stumbled and fell prone, but with every bit of muscle left they kept crawling forwards –

Alyx had seized back the gravity gun – a sawblade leapt into its grasp. With a trigger, it launched – The blade cut deep into the foremost zombie, new colors spattered Gordon's vision -

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

Alyx seized another sawblade: CRAKOW – Gordon thought it decapitated another zombie, and rendered another immobile on the ground…

His mind raced…more were coming into the room, clamoring from every cranny of the house – Where were his glasses…

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGclickclickclickclick

Gordon threw the gun at the nearest zombie, which batted it aside with a mutant hand.

"Under! UNDER!" Alyx screamed. Gordon swiveled around, she was crouched underneath the pinwheel of death – Gordon ducked down with her – she was searching for something – "TURN IT ON! TURN IT ON!"

Zombies were upon them from every side.

Gordon found a metal breaker – he slammed it down –

Sparks flew, some smoke fumed out –

The death pinwheel accelerated to nearly thirty miles an hour in a second.

SLICE-SHUMP-SLOWSL-CHLUMP-

In one rotation, the propeller had created another five pairs of legs. The torsos went flying into the walls from the force.

SLICE SHUMP SCHOWLP

Several more zombies had blindly stumbled to take their places, and were likewise disposed of.

The propeller was boasting forty-five miles an hour. It screamed like a tea kettle, over a low rumbling unmuffled motor.

Gordon and Alyx remained, still as scared rabbits, underneath the guillotine fan.

Alyx reached over and deposited Gordon's glasses, miraculously unharmed, onto his face.

His breath came heavy.

There were at least five hostless headcrabs scrambling around on the floor. One made a leap for Gordon – it sprung too high and WHAP SMASH – into the wall.

Another approached without jumping – Alyx shot it dead, and Gordon flipped the body upwards with his crowbar – WHAP SMACK.

The headcrabs were gurgling, croaking, pacing. The zombies swayed in place, as if uncertain…They were moaning in time with each other, in awful chorus – maaaaaahhhhhhhooooooo…

Alyx and Gordon's pulses were in time too, thumping in their veins.

The remaining horde remained on the edges, watching the blade spin.

 _No – not watching,_ Gordon thought. _Listening, and talking. They know something is in the center, and that it killed several of them -_

One more tentatively approached – SCWHOP – the torso flew up into the air like a punted pigskin, and fell back into the whirling blade – it was cut in half again, both pieces flying across the room, smacking into two loitering zombies – one of them had its headcrab explode like a pinched tick, and it slid down the wall almost comically.

"Well, now we just have to wait here until sunrise," Gordon said sarcastically.

But Alyx's eyes widened with horror.

The severed torsos, after a minute of lying scattered across the ground, were flinching with renewed life.

They began dragging themselves.

They were dragging themselves across the floor, soggy intestines trailing behind.

They were too low to be hit by the blade. They approached from every side.

Gordon's mind raced – _Not enough ammunition. We should have brought more, but they require so much to take down. Not enough time to hit them all with the gravity gun. Too heavy to flip up into the blade -_

Alyx fired the gravity gun, without anything in it – a lone bolt of yellow leaped out from its pinchers, and shoved one of the zombies back a few feet. But it shook off the effect and continued clawing forwards – slowly but surely -

"You couldn't do this at Black Mesa!" Gordon shouted angrily at them. And he thought, all in a moment - _We can easily evade them if we could stand up. But we can't stand up because we have to keep the walkers away. If there were no walkers, then we could stand up. We need the walkers to walk into the blade. They won't walk into the blade because they can hear it._

"Trust me," Gordon suddenly assured Alyx.

And he shut off the blade machine.

The tea kettle squeal subsided –

mmmoooooAAAAAAAHHHHHH

The walkers stumbled forwards, like drunken men beginning a race – in a few steps they overtook the crawlers – they were upon Gordon and Alyx, their chests were open wide –

Gordon had the gravity gun in his hand. He fired it at an angle.

Mustard lightning struck the pinwheel, forcing it forwards, forty miles an hour instantly –

In one rotation, it sliced through the six closest zombies like warm butter.

Gordon fired again.

The other six had already approached, not hearing the tea kettle whistle –

They were cut just as cleanly.

Gordon pulled the first trigger, and the blade stopped instantly, caught in the gun's invisible vice grip.

"Up, up, up," Gordon intoned, taking Alyx by the arm. They were on their feet, the crawlers struggling below them. Gordon struck one beneath his bootheel, and with a bony crackle, stomped its headcrab in. The long hands swiped vainly at his hazard suit.

Alyx took a deep breath – "Nice," she managed. And then taking back the gravity gun, seized a sawblade, and destroyed another of the crawlers.

In another minute, nothing was left moving in the room, but themselves.

In the distance, the echoing continued, like a bombing alarm – moooooaaaahhhhh…

And Gordon thought he could hear that gravely voice on the wind, crying out in Romanian.

Alyx, not saying a word, slowly rested her forehead against Gordon's chest plate. Her breath was heaving. Gordon reached his arms around to hold the back of her head.

She was holding back tears. "It's so _horrible_ ," she said simply.

"Yes," Gordon replied.

"We need to keep moving."

"Yes."

Gordon kissed her on the crown of her head, and somewhat compulsively returned a loose lock of hair into her headband.

 _What is going on in this town,_ Gordon stated to himself, as though it were too mysterious to even pose as a question.

…

When the gravely voice cried out, nearer now, " _Căci se spune că au ajuns ca acei demoni, care trăiesc în materie, dar în care nu se găsește nici o lumină!_ "

The bedraggled, green spattered couple turned together to listen.

"They come as demons that live in material, but in which there is no light," Alyx said, looking towards the half-blockaded exit, and the darkness beyond. "It sounds like he's…quoting something."

"He brought the zombies on us with his racket," Gordon murmured. "I think he knows we're here."

"Let's go ask him," Alyx said, and began where Gordon left off on the door.

* * *

They exited into a cold street.

They heard the voice crying from the left: " _Am fost așezat într-o groapă de întuneric și umbra morții. Și mânia ta a apăsat asupra mea; și toate grijile tale au coborât asupra mea. Și din acest pat am strigat pentru aprinderea Luminii tale!_ "

"Something about a seat of darkness and a pit, and 'from this seat I cried for the lighting of your Light –"

KABANG.

Gordon and Alyx rushed forwards, and rounded a corner in the street. They were just in time to see how, down this new alley, in a great courtyard, a great gas explosion had erupted in blue, purple and orange flame – dancing light, a great powerful pyre in the courtyard's center – Gordon could see in silhouette, terrible spires amidst the flames, with bodies speared upon them – all the surrounding buildings were now illuminated in the orgy of light, the cacophony of fire, which swirled and constantly threatened to get out of hand – the moans of the dead raked through the night air – and there were terrible screams and screaming breaking through the alien wailing – zombies, zombies on fire, stumbling down the street, their arms waving in the air, several running straight towards Gordon and Alyx –

The crash of a door – and there emerged a figure from a building behind the pyre – he strode out onto a scaffold porch, and stood unaffected in the awful smoke and gas – Gordon spied a rifle in the large figure's hands – and as the man took aim, he broke into a hideous, full laugh.

"Ah ha, Ha HA HA AHAHA HA HA! HA! HAHAHA!"

BLAM.

One flaming zombie collapsed, the headcrab blown half off.

BLAM.

Another zombie down.

BLAM. Another.

"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

…

The man lowered his rifle. And then his voice thundered across the area.

" _Ce este asta? Un alt vizitator pentru_ Chekov _?"_

"Visitors for Chekov," Alyx repeated to herself, and then strode forwards, closer into the light. Gordon followed protectively behind, a pit in his stomach. "Yes!" Alyx began, shouting up towards the man. " _Suntem prieteni_ …ah… _ai lui_ Eli Vance! Are you Chekov? _Ești_ Chekov?"

The dark figure seemed to cock his head in interest. Then, in a very thick, almost unintelligible accent, declared in English:

"I am not Chekov. I am Father Grigori, his…servant. My master awaits you at the Church – _if_ you survive his…trials."

Silence, but for the roar of the fire.

"I'll keep my eye on you," Father Grigori assured, almost laughing. "But more than that, I cannot promise!"

And he retreated into the building.


	9. We Don't Go to Ravenholm, pt 2

"We Don't Go to Ravenholm,"

(part two)

The fire lapped voluptuously at its own fleeing smoke. The wild light filled Gordon's glasses. It smelled of burnt pork and rotten eggs and chemicals in the laboratory. Bodies impaled on spikes in a bonfire…Dante's _Inferno_ , High School English, his least favorite class, his least favorite work…such cruelty…

Gliding over the rooftops on icy wings: the moan of the damned. A ragged chorus of demons in reply. Their language was pain.

Gordon and Alyx were running.

The fire blazed behind them as they sprinted down the narrow cobblestone street – Spectral shadows were dancing on the brickwork walls…Zombies were emerging from the bowels of the buildings around them, like ants from a smashed hill.

Alyx yanked Gordon by the arm. They turned to the left. Down an even narrower alley. Into a small grassy court enclosed by apartments. Metal scaffolding led up one of the buildings. Three zombies were there, already roused by the moaning, turning to face them -

CRACK. KRAKOW.

Gordon hit one with the crowbar, bursting the back of the headcrab and spraying yellow-green slime. Alyx launched a garbage can – it bowled the second zombie into the wall, where it left green and red stains on the brick. The can ricocheted high into the air. Alyx caught it in the gun's pincers and fired again – KRAKOW. The third zombie's head ripped off, and the body collapsed to the ground, twitching.

Behind them – the moans, the shuffling and stumbling of feet -

"You've practiced with that thing," Gordon said.

Alyx couldn't help but grin.

"And the alley will funnel the others," Gordon added. "Like that one movie…"

" _The Lion King_?"

"That's the one."

"Up the scaffolding," Alyx said. "We can see the church from up there. That's where the man said Chekov was. I remember – it was to the north I think -"

BZAP.

A floodlight turned on above their heads, along with several apartment windows. And the whole metal scaffold shot sparks – long, blue and white – KRAZZZZZZZAMP – A plume of blue smoke wafted up from it.

Alyx and Gordon leaped back.

The ladder now hummed with dangerous energy, and the joints occasionally jittered with more sparks.

"What-?" Alyx shouted in surprise.

Gordon pointed. They looked up together.

There: a small surveillance camera was staring down at them from one of the windows.

"Chekov," Gordon said. "He's watching; he's giving us a 'trial' –" But Gordon was interrupted by Alyx seizing and launching the trashcan's lid at the camera. It shattered the lens and knocked the device askew. The can lid rebounded, did a thousand flips in the air, and landed on a rooftop.

"Gordon!"

"Yo."

"Can you scale walls?"

Gordon looked at the brick and cement. "Not quickly."

Alyx launched the trashcan again at the approaching horde. She bowled the front lines over.

"I'll bet there's a circuit mechanism for the fence up near the camera," Gordon suggested.

"I should climb up?"

"I'll hold my own down here."

Alyx gave him a severe look. "If you find another way out of this, do that." She handed him the gravity gun and the Colt Python, and, like a cat, began to scrabble up the brickwork, her fingers gripping the gaps and cracks. Gordon could hear her snarl under her breath every time she slipped or scraped her skin.

Gordon faced the undead.

They were packing into the alleyway – shoving against each other, raking their bodies against the brick walls, like grubs under a rock, stumbling half-blindly forward, always letting out that awful groan…but mixed beneath it…haggard, hoarse diaphragms moaning…moaning…you could almost hear what they were saying –

Gordon, curious, aimed the gun at a headcrab and tried to pull it off.

The gun crooned – no effect.

Gordon tried an arm.

No effect.

 _Fascinating,_ Gordon thought.

Now he was _really_ thinking – and the thoughts went lightning fast. Disconnected. Like leisurely photons. The sight of Father Grigori's pyre had numbed him somehow and maybe the stench of death had shut his gag reflexes down and his subconscious jukebox started playing _Disco Inferno_ by The Trammps as he worked out the problems around him –

 _Chekov is watching from the cameras. They had Grigori put cameras all over. And remotely activated traps._

/ _The zero-point energy does not negate willful movement._

 _"To my surprise, one hundred stories high…"_

 _\- What is here for me to throw at these guys?_

 _Chekov could have waited and electrocuted us on the scaffold. But instead they_ warned _us. It isn't a booby trap, but a_ challenge.

/ _It's downright anti-Newtonian. It respects will._

 _"People getting loose y'all, gettin' down on the roof…"_

 _\- Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty zombies. Halfway to me, two miles and hour. I've got a garbage can, a garbage can lid…_

 _Why test us? To see if we're worthy of the information they have. But what kind of information requires worthiness?_

/ _I'll have to conduct more tests, of course…_

 _"Folks are screamin'…"_

Gordon pulled the trigger – the garbage can slid towards him, but it would not contest the strength of the zombies.

/ _Even more interesting._

 _"Out of control…"_

 _Focus Gordon._

300! _The movie was_ 300…

The zombies were getting too close. They were packed into the alley – Gordon pulled the garbage can lid from the rooftop. It took a few moments –

 _Mmmaaaaahhhhhhh…_

Aim –

 _"It was so entertainin'…"_

Fire –

The lid slammed in between two of the foremost zombies, wedging between them, forcing them even harder against the walls…

They couldn't move. They were stuck, like an overfull bookcase.

 _That should buy some time,_ Gordon thought. _But what now?_

 _"When the boogie started to explode…"_

 _Hazard suit._

 _How much would I need?_

 _D[A]/dt = -Ki[A]^n || Kcal + Cps || dT/dt – (d[A]/dt)(deltaHrV) –_

 _Leg –_ He unclamped the leg piece for his left thigh, and quickly dissected it – there, what he needed, a yellow wire, one of several -

"Knife?" he shouted up to Alyx.

" _In a moment!_ " she shouted back. She was on the window ledge. With the handle of her Bouie knife, she cracked, cracked, shattered in the glass.

The zombie horde was starting to climb over the comical blockade.

"Gordon!" He turned, caught the knife with the gravity gun, released it into his hand. He slit the yellow wire, pointing the leg piece towards the alleyway. A clear fluid sprayed out, like a cut throat. He was sprinkling the zombie blockade with hazard suit juice – one, two, three seconds – Gordon was counting – the blockade was going to burst at any moment, the zombies were ramming against it – spilling over it -

Gordon tossed the leg piece towards the sparking scaffold.

A single spark met a droplet from the hazard suit.

 _"I heard somebody say…"_

P-P-P-P-P-P-P-P-POW-!

A string of explosions, like a cluster of cherry bombs, louder than gunshots, brighter than gunpowder. Gordon was blinded for a moment and his hearing was clogged with tinnitus.

White. Nothing but white –

….

… _.aaaaa_

 _aaaaaaaaAAAA_

 _aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHaaAHAHHAAAAAAAHHHHH!_

 _aaaaapppphhhPLEASEAAHAAAAAAAHHHHH!_

 _aaaaaAAAGGGHHGODHELPAHHHaaAHAHGODOHHAAAAAAAHHHHH!_

Gordon came to.

The horde was ablaze.

 _"'Burn baby burn…'"_

The front line was already destroyed. The explosions had set their soggy flesh aflame with chemical burn – they were being consumed within seconds by leaping blue-white tongues. The air shimmered with heat. All their moisture was vaporizing instantly into green-gray steam that billowed up into the clouds, as their bodies crumpled to the ground. And the fires did not stop there, but caught onto the others: first the clothes, then the hair, then the flesh – shimmering, shimmering, diamonds and sapphires - Their long, spindly arms raised up in the air, as if in supplication. It smelled like smoking iron – Gordon could feel the heat on his face…

His glasses were filled with fire.

 _"Saaaaatisfaction! Came in a chain reaction…(burnin') I couldn't get enough! Until I haaaaad to self-destruct…"_

 _Sutral Dicyanoacetylene – Lesser Combustion._

It was beautiful.

The zombies were stumbling towards him, but before they could lay hands upon him, they collapsed in a growing, smoldering heap at his feet.

Gordon turned his head downwards, as if in prayer.

The scaffolding had stopped sparking.

Alyx was calling his name, leaning out from the window.

"Yes?" he replied.

"What the actual **** did you _do_?!"

"I'm fine. How are you?"

"What…what kind of fire is that? I don't recognize – Gordon, where's your thigh guard – did you use-?"

Gordon did not respond. Instead, he tossed the Colt Python at the scaffolding. Nothing happened – no sparks.

He gripped it. No sparks.

He began climbing, as the flames began dying of their own exuberance. Some struggled to maintain themselves on the grass, but met the corners of dirty snow. Sizzling steam rose up…

Gordon was eye-level with Alyx now. She took a deep breath – she was shaking. She began climbing out of the window to join him. They stood together on a platform of the scaffold, the remaining fire lighting them from below.

"Are you okay?" Gordon repeated, holding her shoulders. She gripped his arm back – it sent a wonderful energy up through his body, like it was remembering something.

"Just some headcrabs in there, was all," Alyx replied.

Her arms were calming down, but Gordon noticed a gash across her right forearm.

"They got you," he noted.

"They did, the nasty ****s. Sorry," she added, "I keep swearing at you. Sorry."

"We're in hell. I don't care."

" _I_ care…whatever. Are _you_ okay?"

"I'm not sure. Let's finish this as soon as possible."

"Absolutely."

* * *

They ascended up the rickety, rusted staircase, and climbed onto a flat rooftop. The chemical fire still smoldered below them.

Three stories high – thirty feet. The breeze was more present, up where no buildings could block it. It was bitter cold as ice. Perfect snowflakes, like dying fairies, drifted down past Gordon's flashlight. The moon, a shining eye, peered through its curtain of clouds.

Ravenholm was laid out around them, like a model train environment. The industrial revolution mingled with the reformation and the middle ages: metal, brick, wood, stone, all by turns.

The undead choir murmured in _pianissimo_ throughout the labyrinth.

There – the church – Alyx pointed to it silently. A dark spired dome – no, two of them – they rose up from a small white complex at the top of an incline; for, the town was built half on a hill, and the church crowned the top. On the canvas of night sky behind it, a faint flicker of lightning revealed the ragged horizon line. Gordon thought he saw the spectral silhouette of the citadel…

"Well done, brother!" shouted a voice from behind them.

Gordon and Alyx whirled around on the sloped roof. They had both drawn their guns.

There, perched on a chimney two buildings away, was the mad monk – "Father Grigori." He had his arms outstretched in welcome. He would be invisible if not for his handheld lantern, set on the chimney's edge, which clothed him in pale fluorescent light. His ruddy, filth-smeared face, his bald, round head, his broad hobgoblin grin, made him look like a jack-o-lantern scarecrow, crucified before the field.

"Well done, sister!" Grigori added in the same jolly tone, apparently unfazed by their defensiveness. " _De ce atât de surprinși?_ I have already introduced myself, and you have already met, heh, my _congregation_ …heh heh heh…aheh aheh haha haHA HAHA HAHAHAHA!"

Several voices howled in semi-reply – _mmoooAAAAAAAOOOOhhhh_ …

"That man is not well," Gordon said simply, "and I'm Gordon Freeman."

"I was going to say that about myself," Alyx replied.

Neither of them lowered their pistols. _It's like that one movie people were always talking about,_ Gordon thought absently. _Shoot, what was it called…_ It had been repulsively violent, a delirious film – Gordon remembered it had a murderer, who was saved from death by miraculous probabilities, and afterwards he got religion and said something about a shepherd…

"Gordon?"

"Hm?"

"If we threaten him," Alyx said, "do you think Chekov would care? Is this guy a blackmail option?"

Gordon blinked. "I don't think so. I actually think Chekov is a computer program…"

The mad monk interrupted him, "You've stirred up _hell_! You're after my own heart! Chekov, he is impressed! He has informed me to give you this, as encouragement!"

He pulled from behind his back a black stick – no, a rifle? No, a _shotgun_ …

"If," he continued, grinning with either mischief or malice, "you can get it."

He hurled it towards them, up into the air. Gordon instantly calculated the trajectory. Alyx had the gravity gun. "Ten feet short!" he said quickly. Alyx instinctively switched to the gravity gun, and just barely managed to seize the shotgun out of the air.

It was a SPAS-12 tactical.

The monk guffawed. "Well done, again! You will need that, for the test is far from over – _Domnul fie cu tine!"_

"What happens if we kill you?" Gordon called out suddenly.

"Ha!" Grigori grinned. "I think I would die, yes? And you would not speak to Chekov, I assure you!"

\- _Gordon noticed something while they spoke_ -

"What if," Alyx was saying, "we just shoot your kneecaps out?"

"Ah ha! _Și Dumnezeu te-ar pedepsi pentru asta!_ But go ahead and try!"

\- _Figures…more scarecrows…there, there, and there…_ -

Suddenly Grigori drew out another gun – his rifle – from somewhere on his silhouetted person. In a single fluid motion, it was up to his shoulder, cocked and ready to fire with accuracy. Alyx almost fired on him.

Gordon remained still, tense as a tuning fork.

"And you would have one more _monstru_ to fear," Grigori was saying, his voice drained of good humor.

\- _Spindly beings standing still on the chimney tops behind Grigori…they were so still, too still, no sign of breathing, but zombies didn't need to breathe…they swayed slightly, like corn in a field…yes, yes their heads were upturned. They were staring at the moon. They were so thin…why were they so thin? Nothing but bone and muscle…nothing but…_

"Leave Ravenholm, if you like!" Grigori was saying. "But my friends, you would miss the show! Tonight is very special, very special…my congregation, they have grown _unruly_ again…And if you would speak to Chekov, you endure it…you endure our crucible. Yes?"

Silence.

"Yes?" Grigori repeated, obviously expecting an answer.

"Yes! We want to see Chekov!" Alyx shouted back, exasperated, then, privately: "Gordon, you're spacing out again – what, do you see something…?"

Gordon watched –

\- as Grigori shifted his foot –

BAZAP – SHOOM SHOOM SHOOM –!

Floodlights.

They blazed on, from several chimneys round about, shining down upon Gordon and Alyx. The light was blinding –

And in the background was…what was that…? A call, a scream…but it was somewhat muffled, it sounded like it came from a speaker…

"Seek the church!" Grigori called out of the blinding white.

Gordon's eyes adjusted in another few moments. There was no sign of Grigori or the spindly figures behind him.

Gordon, compulsively, seized Alyx by the arm and ran.

There was a second blood-curdling scream, somewhere in the night, answering the first. But this one was real. So very, very real…it was a blast of hot air wrung from a ragged larynx; a tire screech produced by vocal cords; a buzz saw scraping metal…

 _Chekov,_ Gordon thought. _Another trap. Draw in the zombies with lights and speakers. That sound is their call, I bet. I don't recognize it. Those spindly ones are different. They are…older ones, aren't they? Amphetamine crabs…they're amphetamine crabs…too much brain juice…_

They reached the edge of the roof – JUMP –

Slammed onto another flat roof. Run north, run north – towards the church –

BZAP!

More floodlights sparked on. The speakers followed them. Alyx cried out angrily -

The heaving of breath…and the galloping of hands and feet behind them…a gurgling sound, like someone trying to talk with a split tongue …

At the edge of another roof – JUMP! –

Gordon stumbled – his suit was heavy – and the dusting of frost and snow was dangerously smooth beneath their heels. Dodge the chimneys – BZAP! – more lights, nearly blinding, couldn't see, the speakers howling, screeching, moaning _…_

They could hear more savage screams tangle together in the night… _HOOOOOWWWWWWWLLLLLOOOOOCCHHHH—_

Two skeletal silhouettes appeared at the edge of the roof – slobbering, gurgling, hurtling towards them –

KABANG! BANG BANG!

The forms crumpled, one fell from the roof – no time to stop and see what they were no time no time at all to hesitate just _JUMP_!

BAM, BAM! Onto a slanted roof – Alyx's foot slipped – Gordon caught her by the arm – groaned as he hauled her back to her feet – several rotten shingles slid down to the ground below –

Run, run – but the slant was too dangerous – Gordon tried to reach the peak of the roof –

 _RRRRAAACCHHHHHH-_!

KRAKOW!

Gordon didn't see what happened. Something had leaped nearby, and screamed – Alyx had fired the shotgun – tinnitus in Gordon's ears again –

At the edge – _JUMP -!_

No more floodlights were turning on. But the monsters continued behind.

\- no, wait, a single light –

It shown like a spotlight ahead of them, a bright tower piercing the veiled sky.

 _JUMP!_

Gordon and Alyx had no time to change direction, no idea what lay on either side of them. The only way was forward…

 _JUMP!_

Galloping limbs…slobbering breath…

They were at the spotlight – there was a trapdoor in the flat roof –

Alyx and Gordon slid down it, and with a fluid motion, Alyx triggered the gravity gun. She caught the door - it slapped shut behind them, just as they both skidded across the floor.

HOOWWLWLLCCHH!

They heard heavy footfalls and furious scrabbling above. Snarls, gurgles, cut throats screaming…

" _What is chasing us-?_ " Alyx hissed.

"Crabs on meth," Gordon said simply.

Meanwhile, he quietly took the shotgun off her hands and compulsively reloaded it. He glanced about the room. It was lit by a single incandescent bulb. They were in some kind of storage closet, with heavy boxes everywhere. No windows, but there was an old style, metal cage elevator in the corner – the gate was shut. And near to that was a door out of the room – it was the only door.

Any cameras? Any cameras? "Any cameras?" he repeated out loud.

Alyx answered with a gesture towards another corner of the room. "I don't know if I should destroy it… _how many of these things_ are _there?!_ "

Growls from upstairs. Scrabbling limbs.

 _Huh,_ Gordon thought. _Maybe they can't grip the handle. They're too jittery. Or they literally don't know how to open a door…_

"Yo, Chekov," Alyx was saying to the camera. "You having a good show? You sadistic maniac?"

Scratches and scrabbles on the ceiling…the bulb bobbed and swung a little, sending all the inky shadows into seizures.

And Alyx suddenly threw up on the floor.

"Alyx -?" Gordon exclaimed.

"Oh jeez…" she said, unsteady.

She slumped against a wooden crate. Gordon was there in a second. "I'm fine," she assured him. "Nausea again. Very…the smells are terrible. Ha…"

From above… _HOOOOWWWLLLCCHHH_ -!

The light flickered for a moment.

"We need to keep moving," Alyx continued.

The bulb flickered, and Alyx threw up again. Soupy sludge sloughed onto the floor. Alyx was shivering in Gordon's arms…

 _What is happening to her…?_ Gordon thought –

Then he saw it. Black bruising on her forearm, where the gash had been. Some pale green, but mostly black and purple. It spread across her whole forearm, wrist to elbow. The whole area was throbbing with inflammation, and there was a thick, dark discharge starting to bead like dew from the wound's ground zero.

"That's not a…flesh wound…" Alyx noted, with some difficulty.

Gordon's eyes widened.

He knew that brackish, bitter-sweet syrupy smell. It shot straight to his olfactory bulb.

An image: a beast with one giant swinging testicle…barreling right towards him.

"Alyx," he murmured, "what color were the headcrabs that gashed you?"

"They were covered in blood, and the light was bad. I don't know."

"They were dark? Black?"

"I just assumed it was blood –!"

Gordon was already rummaging through their supplies. Everything medical, or remotely medical – _and what would counteract the venom anyway? Think, Gordon, think, quickly…you can figure this out, you can…just remember. Just remember, all the facts…_

Crack!

The elevator sparked.

 _Chekov…_ Gordon thought.

The gates opened.

A dozen headcrabs spilled out. Snarling, gurgling – clamoring over each other –

"Gordon-!"

There was a pile of boxes nearby.

Gordon seized the gravity gun from Alyx, and with it, yanked one of the boxes out from the tower's foundation.

A quarter ton of packaged merchandise – textbooks, apparently - collapsed on the whole cast of crabs with a sickening, collective crunch.

Not one managed to escape.

…

Gordon approached the camera.

"Nice try," he said quietly. "I think you should change tactics. _Because I will make her pain your pain, her death your death._ "

And he crushed the camera in with his crowbar.

* * *

Through the door, out of the closet. Gordon was supporting Alyx as she hobbled along. "This makes us uneven," she wheezed. "You need to…get shot again or something…"

Down a hallway. The scrabbling on the roof followed them. At least a dozen pairs of frostbitten, mutant feet…

 _They smell her wound,_ Gordon thought.

Through another door – Gordon blasted it open with the gravity gun.

Inside was a makeshift infirmary, on the upper floor of a used book store. There was a down-staircase in the right corner.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, but most of them had been hurriedly cleared, and the books kicked into ruinous piles in the corners. In their place were test tubes, medical supplies, laptops long out of battery. And in the center of the room was a row of cots – six in total. Four hosted long rotten bodies, one with an empty IV drip still hooked to its wrist.

The stench was intolerable – it coated Gordon's lungs. Alyx heaved – but nothing was left in her stomach to vomit.

 _Focus, Gordon. Focus._

 _Alyx's wound is discharging the ebony honey from Xen. The kind that those titan monstrosities produced, when they fused with the fungus._

 _She was infected by black headcrabs. I've never seen black headcrabs before. But they are somehow associated with the fungus-fusion, with the ebony nectar. So, the headcrabs are evolving. They're readapting to Earth, importing their old ways…_

 _Focus._

Gordon leaned Alyx against a wall, and began ripping through every scrap of paper in the room. A few things were in English. Some French and German he could make out. But a great deal was scrawled in what he assumed was Romanian – and all in the same handwriting. He handed those papers to Alyx.

"Your arm is infected with a Xen compound, specific to headcrabs," he explained. "I'm looking to see if this infirmary took any notes on it. Can you read these?"

"Barely."

"Let me know what you find."

"Do we have…time for this?" Alyx coughed.

"We have all the time in the world to _gain_ ," Gordon replied soberly.

The scrabbling continued above. There were bangs and thuds and…splintering wood? No, not yet…

"The terminology…" Alyx said, her throat raspy, "is beyond…me…but…no! Here. ' _fiara neagră - infecție bacteriană –_ beast black, infection bacterial - _deșeuri de mitoză:_ waste from mitosis includes _sfingomielinaza acidului mutagene_ and _compusul feromonic accidental._ '"

 _It's bacterial,_ Gordon thought. _The venom is a byproduct of the bacteria dividing._

"We have to…counteract…" Alyx murmured, "the mitosis and the venom. Kill the…bacteria and…but…the venom's in my bloodstream. Heart's been…pumping…"

"Will Vortigaunt blood help?"

"I don't know…I've never heard…of poisonous headcrabs…but…" she coughed. "No, I don't think… _sfingomielinaza acidului mutagene…_ yes, it would help. If these papers are…true. V-blood combined with –"

"A strong disinfectant," Gordon finished, while searching their supplies, "and cretolonic base, correct?"

"No," Alyx corrected. "Cretolics reduce the boiling point…for…the boiling point for V-blood, for the yeosynthytes in the blood…not a good idea."

"What, then?"

"Gonadril…gonadril would work— _LOOK OUT_!"

 _Flesh Gullet Maw_ – A headcrab, long and spindly and fast – had leapt from the corner of Gordon's eye. It had landed on the side of his face – its spidery limbs digging into his scalp, clamoring around, a gigantic bug, both clumsy and fast. Gordon had seen the inside of their circular maw many times and he had never gotten used to it –

Without thought, Gordon had taken Alyx's knife and slammed it into the headcrab's side, slicing open his own nose to get to it. Its juices sprayed out, it released a wretched warble and death rattle – its maw had gotten a half grip on his face and was biting down –

Gordon twisted the knife, pulled it out, stabbed again – he had fallen onto his back, and was writhing on the floor to get the crab off –

Gordon saw Alyx stumble to her feet, the shotgun in hand. She aimed and fired at something – BANG!

Gordon stabbed a third time– cut a nerve. The crab released him and fell limply to the floor. Gordon scrambled away – but now he saw two more bandy-legged crabs scrabbling up his legs towards his face –

Alyx was shooting at something else - BANG! BANG!

Gordon rolled, as fast as he could, until he rammed into one of the infirmary beds. The beasts had to abandon ship – Gordon sprang to his feet –

They were running back to him – he stamped one beneath his bootheel – SPLURCH – but the other was on his leg – he kicked up into the bed and cracked it between his shin and the cot's frame. It fell limp and twitching.

Blood was in his right eye. It stung like saltwater. Blood was on his lips. It tasted like iron. His unprotected thigh had two deep gouges from the crabs' legs, punctured through the fabric of his clothes from Black Mesa East.

Alyx had switched to the gravity gun, and launched a bookcase down the stairs.

 _Mmmooooooooaaaauuuuuu_

"Horde coming up!" Alyx shouted. "You okay?!"

"Sure – you?"

"Adrenaline high!"

Gordon's mind whirring – "Keep them busy!"

"With pleasur—" but she retched again. Then she sturdied herself against the back wall, and seized a thick textbook with the gravity gun.

 _maaaAAAALAUUUULLL_

Gordon was ransacking the room for supplies.

There was a horrible cacophony downstairs…

 _Battery, battery, battery anywhere…this is useful though, grab that, this too, grab this…_

Something scrambling up the stairs, over the bookcase – SHA- _BANG –_ Alyx caught it with the book missile – it was another spindle crab –

Gordon used the knife to slice a slab of meat from one of the corpses -

"… _realize there's nowhere left to run…You feel the cold hand…And wonder if you'll ever see the sun…"_

 _MMMMAAAAAUUUUUU_

Something much larger leapt up the stairs –

"WHAT THE -!"

SHA- _BANG_!

Alyx launched a textbook into its face; the force threw it back down the stairs, into the dark and out of view.

"Zombie! _That was a full zombie!_ "

Gordon did not answer. He was almost ready to arm the bomb –

Desperate slobbering sounds, the gallop of hands and feet –

SHA- _BANG-_!

 _RRRRRRAAAUUUUUUAAAH!_

A figure leapt up from the stairs at an angle, dodging the book-missile. It was facing Gordon – it was in the air, leaping, with a screeching war cry -

Gordon went for his gun –

The beast collided with him like a sack of wet concrete – it threw him off the ground, slamming him into the wall.

The beast was upon him in another second.

It was skinned alive, skinned to muscle and bone – viciously red, slime preserved muscle – it smelled of black death – its screams threatened to snap Gordon's ossicles, as they rippled out of the corpse's throat – yes, Gordon could see the victim's jaw – the headcrab, its long and spindly legs dug into the man's shoulders and neck, had enveloped only half of the skull, covering the eyes and nose, but leaving the mouth, so it could scream with it –

And it was consumed with demonic rage.

Gordon had managed to raise an arm up, before the zombie began ripping and tearing savagely at him, trying to get at the flesh of his face. Two malformed hands, nearly a foot long now, tipped with bloody talons, raked across his hazard suit, nail breaking on metal – it tried to seize Gordon's arm and rip it away – Gordon kicked at it, tried to grab his gun – with one hand the beast seized him by the scalp, and digging painfully into his skin, tried to throw him off balance – another hand clawed at his face, knocked his glasses aside, trying to flay him, make a rug out of him –

But then, for a moment, as if in frustration, as if boiling alive from the inside, the monster stopped attacking, leaned back, and with its hands almost in supplication, howled upwards at the roof, at the night, at the moon – a skeleton weeping with anger –

And then Alyx was behind it.

She had positioned the gravity gun – the head-crab was now between the pincers.

She turned it on, as if to pull the head into the energy field.

The beast seemed to sense something, but it had fallen still and silent.

One moment, two moments –

Wumwumwumwumwum

mmmmm—

The beast's head swiveled 180 degrees on its neck.

The headcrab burst and flew apart like a popped water balloon. The ruined skull underneath, hairless and shrunken, imploded at the temples, bursting soupy brain matter out of the eyes and ears like a grape.

Then the whole head caught fire for half a second – and then exploded, painting Gordon and Alyx and the surrounding room in hot human sludge.

Pause.

"Holy ****," Alyx said, wide-eyed. "That is not…I pulled the wrong trigger…I meant to just hit it…just hit it with lightning…I didn't think _that_ would happen…Holy *********."

"Fascinating," Gordon murmured aloud.

There were moans and screams from downstairs. Gordon could barely see what was happening, but no more zombies were in the room.

Alyx, forcing herself out of shock, picked up Gordon's glasses with her good hand – but even it was shaking with fatigue.

"These things…are indestructible," she said, placing the glasses gently on Gordon's face.

Gordon didn't answer. He saw, over her shoulder, that she had blockaded the staircase with several more bookshelves and a cot.

And even then, there was a thump, and the whole barricade jumped.

Gordon returned to the table where he had nearly assembled the bomb. Calmly, as if nothing had happened, he wrapped the battery in flesh, and clutched it in his fist.

He noted that the scrabbling feet were no longer on the roof, but downstairs, especially near the staircase.

The bookshelves leapt in place again –

A clawed hand reached out, scraping at the floor –

"Gordon!"

He crushed the battery capsule in the meat, and shoved it down the spine of a ruined hardback textbook. He shoved the textbook across the floor, through the gap opened up by the reaching zombie.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

And then ran, as fast as he could, with Alyx, to the hallway, to shut the door behin-

KABOOM.

* * *

Gordon came to.

He was facing away from the infirmary. No fog.

He managed to turn back. A thick cloud of yellow fog.

 _So I haven't been out too long. It hasn't dissipated much yet._

His head was throbbing. He reached up and felt an ugly gash on the side of it. _Concussion._

Alyx was beside him, already awake.

Distant howls still filled the air, but much quieter now.

"Just…gave you a…a dose of…V-blood," Alyx managed, heaving for breath.

Gordon nodded.

"Can you…do…me…?" she asked. "Pretty…tired…"

The black wound had enveloped her arm. A puddle of black honey was on the floor beside her.

The howling sounded closer.

"They're…come…for arm…yeah?" Alyx whispered.

Gordon sat up, and nodded. His heart was already pounding again. Everything stung, especially his face. He was going to have some scars after this.

He fished through their supply bag, which was slung over Alyx's shoulder.

"I already…" Alyx managed, "…the needle is…over there…" She pointed to it, lying on the floor nearby.

Gordon nodded. "I know. I'm finding the gonadril. I grabbed some while making the bomb."

"Yes…!" she breathed in obvious relief. "Thank you…"

He pulled out a small vial of a pitch black, thin liquid. She smiled at the sight of it. Gordon unscrewed the vial, and wafted the odor towards her. She confirmed: "It's gonadril. It has to be..."

Gordon could barely see into the infirmary, due to the smoke. But the door was half-blown off the hinges, and he could tell the floor was mostly gone.

Alyx was a mop of sweat and blood, but she was smiling now; albeit, weakly. And Gordon was striped with bloodstains down his face and onto the hazard suit. His wounds were rapidly closing, but the blood remained. He returned the smile.

In this strange little moment, he felt so warm inside. The dull glow of stars…

"Gordon…?"

"Just thinking."

"You do that a lot," she said affectionately.

Gordon helped her inject the V-blood through her forearm, as she dribbled the black solution externally. She winced and ground her teeth as the gonadril seeped into the sores, and the V-blood coursed through her circulation.

The swelling immediately began to reduce, almost like a deflating balloon.

The blackness was already going away.

For a moment Alyx had a look of ecstasy, relief from pain –

But then she looked scared –

"That's working _really_ fast…that's _too_ fast…" –

But as the reaction slowed.

They both calmed down.

"Is it okay?" Gordon asked.

"I think so…" Alyx replied. "It feels much better…sooooo much better…**** *****…"

She leaned over and hugged Gordon tightly. He did his best to hug back.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Gordon sighed. "Yeah, yeah I'm alright."

They remained in embrace for a few more moments.

…

They separated.

Gordon coughed. "We can't do anything too strenuous, for a while."

"I know."

"We could barricade ourselves somewhere."

The howling was closer still. Gordon eyed the puddle of black honey.

"Honestly," Gordon continued, "I think it would be much easier to traverse this place in daylight. We don't have a time limit, do we? For Chekov?"

"The monk didn't mention anything…" Alyx flexed her arm – the pus had already dried up, and the coloration was already returning to normal. "This is incredibly fast…"

"Fast to act, fast to flee?" Gordon suggested. "The poison, I mean."

"I don't know…" Alyx said. "Anyway; this is a bookshop, right? I remember, a lot of the stores in Ravenholm had cellars. That would be our best bet, I would think, for hiding. We might as well use this building, even though there's this puddle here. We don't have to clear it out over again. But up on the rooftops, those…things…those running zombies, they can find us too easily…I didn't know zombies could run."

"I think it takes a while," Gordon explained, "for them to get like that – and I think they'd have to dry a few heads of cerebrospinal fluid before they got this bad…"

More howling. Closer.

Without speaking, Gordon and Alyx began moving. Back towards the infirmary – they crouched at the edge of the floor: the bomb had blown out eighty percent of it, leaving a gaping hole of splintered wood edges – jagged and round like the mouth of a headcrab. The air was still full of irritating yellow smoke. Below, on the ground floor, the majority of the upper floor was scattered like a half-finished jigsaw puzzle, with several of the beds fallen on top, their rotten occupants strewn about nearby.

And the zombies. There had indeed been a horde below them – maybe thirty-five walking corpses. The blast flung them against the walls, breaking half their bones, filling them with shrapnel. The ones still able to move were dragging themselves, like injured bugs, across the ruined floor: a sorry and disturbing sight.

Alyx took the gravity gun and began picking off these last zombies with lumps of wood shrapnel. While she worked, Gordon dropped to the floor preemptively to look around. There was not much to see, however, since the blast had turned everything into a generic landfill: broken wood, crumbled stone, pages and pages from used books, metal beams and bars…as well as two dozen broken bodies twitching in the corners, and half a dozen headcrab corpses, not moving at all. He jabbed one with the crowbar to be sure.

Then he noticed something –

The bodies were all moving in the same direction – towards the same corner of the room.

The one's Alyx had already picked off – they were outstretched, as if in prayer, towards this one corner.

There…in the corner…

There, there…

A hole in the floor.

"I think I found the cellar," Gordon said. "I'm going to check it out."

He was already upon it, colt python at the ready.

The trapdoor had, apparently, been blown off, along with a chunk of stone flooring.

A zombie, blown in half, dragged up behind him. Its intestines were unwinding from its open gut, in a long trail behind it. It's arms were outstretched towards the hole.

Gordon absently kicked it away with his bootheel.

HE cast his flashlight down into the cellar.

Something was there, five feet down.

He adjusted the light –

It seemed to be a headcrab zombie…at least, a hand, arm, and back…perhaps two zombies, in fact. They seemed perfectly still for the moment – and naked. Gray, greenish flesh…but with pulsing purple veins…

A caught a whiff of ebony honey – it must be from the puddle upstairs -

Alyx hopped down to the ground floor. The sound startled Gordon.

"What is it?" Alyx asked.

Gordon didn't answer. So Alyx looked for herself.

"Here," she said, readying the gravity gun again.

SHA-BANG.

A piece of stone collided with one of the arms. Both bodies jerked wildly, revealing their forms more clearly –

The bodies were fused together.

And they were fused with other bodies in the cellar.

A worm of corpses, strung together helter-skelter.

Faces fused, arms shared, spines swapped – every head – men and women – hosted a headcrab, nestled on top, quietly breathing, siphoning fluid, and pumping more in…gray-green bodies, woven together over years of the headcrab's gardening and pumping… For, Gordon understood.

 _They made a fungus garden out of people._

 _And if they made a fungus garden, that means a headcrab could have fused…_

 _Alyx was poisoned with the black honey. By black headcrabs…_

 _They've produced titans – a "mother" crab -_

 _There's a titan around here. A queen crab, a swinging gonad…a 'gonarch…' it's here…it's a possibility…a trial…_

The smell of black honey was growing.

The remaining bodies became more desperate.

In the distance… _Rrrrraaaaauuuuuhhhhhooowwwllllleeee_ …

Alyx was paralyzed.

"I…" she managed, as she stared into the pit, "I don't understand…"

Gordon gestured roughly – " _We need to go now_."

"Yeah…right…I think you're right…"

… _rrrrraaaauuuuuhhhhhhh…_

They both made for the front door of the shop.

"We could check a nearby building," Gordon was saying. "Maybe…maybe there's an _empty_ cellar…"

Alyx seized him by the shoulder before he exited through the front door.

She pointed.

Camera – in a corner, still hanging from the remaining ceiling, staring down them and the door.

Gordon nodded to her.

Stepping back, Alyx fired the gravity gun. A bolt of yellow lightning leapt out, slamming the door open.

There was a creaking noise.

SLAAMMM!

A rusty blue VW beetle fell, full weight, onto the shop's outside porch.

After a few moments, it was lifted back into the air by a metal cable looped around it. Glass and metal chips fell to the ground like raindrops.

"Nice," Gordon said. "Think we can just duck and roll under it quickly?" Alyx did not respond. Gordon, meanwhile, managed to break in the camera's glass with the crowbar. He then began examining it, to see if any cords or wireless transmissions might be connected with the car trap.

"You know more about electronics," Gordon said aloud. "You want to take a loo –"

Alyx was keeled over.

"Alyx!"

Gordon rushed to her side.

"I…" Alyx whispered, "I think…"

Gordon looked at her wounded arm.

The skin was pulsing from underneath.

"I think…I miscalculated…" she said. "Oh God…"

"It's fine. We can fix this, I can fix this –" Gordon was saying. And round and round through his head went every chemistry class he ever took – _Williamson synthesis…unsymmetrical ethers (ROR')…an alcohol and a haloalkane…in the general summaries…ROH + Na → RO–Na+ + ½H2…RO Na+ + R' X → ROR' + Na+X–_

"AAHH!" Alyx screamed, reeling back onto her feet.

"Alyx?!"

He saw something boiling under the skin –

" _ALYX!_ "

Her arm exploded.

A bone and blood grenade.

Red sprinkled Gordon's glasses.

The combustion knocked Alyx to the side, where she crashed in an unconscious heap, oozing blood from her raw-meat shoulder.

 _Matthew Ashwell: killed in the barrel chamber airlock._

Gordon was at her side. He ripped off her coat, forced it against the wound –

 _Bill Guthrie: transformed into an alien monster in his office._

\- found the bag, grabbed more V-blood – one syringe left –

 _Rupert Godwin, Alice Maheswaran, Emmett Kyle: killed by a lightning blast._

He stabbed the syringe into her shoulder; he emptied every last drop into her veins.

 _Christina Rockwell and Andrew Weatherbee: shot by marines._

"Alyx," he whispered, taking her head in his hand, as he pressed the coat in with his other arm.

 _Arlene Fischer: shot by Combine soldiers._

"Alyx, honey…please don't go…"

 _Alyx Vance: chemical accident – arm exploded._

"No," Gordon whispered, enraged. " _You are not going to die…_ Yo, skullface!" he shouted. "G-man! Make yourself useful, yeah?! You want my cooperation, yeah?! You're gonna make this _work_ , do you hear me?! _SHE IS NOT going to DIE_!"

No response, but for the constant approaching moan… _Mmmaaaaauuuucccchhhh…_

Gordon wiped his tears.

He tied the jacket around Alyx, cinching it up to keep the pressure on the gaping wound.

One of the zombies, still barely dragging itself around, reached out to touch her. Gordon, in an instant, pulled the colt python – BANG – put a point-blank bullet into the center of the headcrab. It stopped moving.

Gently, he moved Alyx into a corner, away from any other roving bodies.

Then he stood up to his full height, the gun still smoking, placing himself between the exit door and Alyx.

He could see now, down the street – zombies marching – could they smell the honey? Or was Chekov guiding them? Did they hear the explosion? Were they going to the cellar?

It didn't matter. They were here, they were coming.

Yes, and there: the sprinters, the meth zombies, trampling out of the crowd, rushing for the doorway –

 _It's going to be a long night._

He hefted up the gravity gun –

One of the sprinters leapt into the air -

RRRRAAAWWWWWHHHH!

Gordon pulled the trigger.

The gravity gun seized the shop door, and drew it shut on the zombie.

KABANG! - the sprinter had slammed into the shut door, nearly breaking it inwards.

Gordon toggled the triggers, launching the door back open. The zombie, busy peeling its face off the wood, was now thrown aside like a shuttlecock.

Just then, another sprinter leapt into the air, aiming for the newly opened entrance –

CRASH!

The car, triggered by the door, caught the zombie mid-air and crushed its head and spine beneath it.

Gordon hustled forwards to the car, before it began lifting into the air again. He peered out of the shop door and to looked up to see where the car was heading – yes, there: the car was hoisted aloft by a hydraulic pulley system rigged off the building's side.

Gordon aimed at the mechanism -

There was a metallic screech – metal on metal – as the gravity gun ripped out a critical piece.

The car, by now a foot off the ground, crashed down again. The sprinter, who had just started twitching, was crushed a second time, and fell completely still.

Gordon dropped the pulley piece to the side, in case he needed ammo. Then, pulling the forward trigger at the car –

SHA- _BANG_ —

A mustard bolt of lightning shot out into the car's side, launching it forwards seven meters in a second. It then rolled another twelve meters, ending on its roof. The streets echoed with the cacophony of metal on stone.

The frontline of zombies was near, like an angry mob in the street - but several seemed to hesitate, sensing the immanent blockade –

Another sprinter leapt forward - RRRRAWAWWWW!

SHA- _BANG—_

Gordon launched the car again, standing closer this time, angling up with the gun –the car jumped up several feet in the air, ten meters per second – thirty-six kilometers an hour, twenty-two miles per hour – The sprinter rolled off the car like deer, and crunched onto the ground in a twitching heap.

Gordon kept marching. SHA- _BANG—_ he mowed down the front line of zombies – SHA- _BANG—_ SHA- _BANG—_ green and red painted the streets – Gordon's jukebox sparked on - _"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas…"_

Gordon began to feel a little nauseous; there was an aching pain growing in his arms and chest. Pressure…he needed to calm down…he needed retreat…

A final launch – and then Gordon about-faced and hustled back for the bookshop door. He could hear howls from the rooftops – he saw a sprinter leap in front of the naked moon. He had left Alyx too long – too long, was she -?

He reentered, slamming the door behind him.

Alyx was still in place.

He rushed up to her side – checked her wound. The blood was already clotting. He checked her pulse – it was slow but present. The veins in her neck were colored green.

Could they hold up here for the whole night? Would that make any difference?

" _Seek the church."_ Was the church the end? Home base? Safe?

Gordon's thoughts were stabbed through by yet another loud interruption – an electric fire alarm began to blare throughout the building.

BING BING BING rrooooooowwwwwww BING BING BING rroooooooowwww

Gordon leapt in place, heart pounding. The noise shot through his eardrums – he _hated_ that sound – he hated all of these blasted sounds – he wanted to shoot something -

 _Is the fire alarm still working?! Where is the fire-?!_

 _No - Chekov. Chekov set it off remotely._

 _But I smashed the camera –_

Gordon turned to look at the camera in the corner, its lens shattered.

 _But not the sound…_ Gordon realized. _The blasted cameras have_ sound _…_

 _That means he heard me to the G-man._

But there was no time to think about it.

Something was coming out of the cellar.

A single, pale, bloated hand grasped at the floor –

Gordon shot it with the Colt Python. It disappeared. There was a horrible retching sound from the cellar – just barely audible over the clamorous alarm.

 _Black honey…I smell black honey…_

Gordon knew what it was.

As fast as he could, Gordon searched through the bomb rubble for a sufficient slab of wood. Upon finding one, he used the gravity gun to drop it next to Alyx's body. Then, as gently as he could, he lifted and placed Alyx upon the wood slab, a makeshift stretcher. And then, after a deep breath, Gordon carefully aimed the gravity gun at the slab again.

It lifted up – with Alyx's body remaining upon it, though jumping slightly.

 _Hallelujah._

Gordon, making sure to keep the board level, made his way back to the door –

Something was heaving itself up out of the cellar, _like Cthulhu through the doors of R'lyeh –_

Gordon kicked the door open – rushed outside – Alyx slid a little on the board and Gordon caught his breath –

Outside, Ravenholm's denizens screamed and sang into the night air – it was louder than rush hour traffic –

 _It's happening…it's happening again…_

Flashbacks of Xen…

The Gonarch's den, the webbing, thousands and thousands of crabs and lobsters they swarmed and ate each other and then came out of each other and the tendrils so many tendrils blue purple green everywhere and so much pulsing like hearts beating and -

Gordon raced through the streets with Alyx lifted before him - His whole body was aching, pressure in his veins – but it didn't matter now. Lesser of two evils. _Seek the church, seek the church…_

He heard a horrible lurching and splurching far behind him, from the bookshop –

Gordon's only light now was the moon – the sky had cleared and only the twilight of the waxing gibbous led the way. The world was black and gray now.

Dim shadows flashed overhead – sprinters leaping over the rooftops, crying out…

 _North, north, up the roads, up, up, up…_

There! There, ahead!

A chain-link fence! Ten feet high! Barbed wire! A rickety, haphazard structure, wretchedly imposing – but there behind it –! The church! The church! The domes and spires -! All black against the sky – sinister, brooding – gnarled trees clawed at its sides in silhouette – It was a two towered structure, at least five stories tall – a front tower, sporting two impressive iron doors, served as the entrance for the main chapel.

Gordon reached a kind of plaza, as if the buildings themselves were making way for the church. He came directly up to the fence – it was clearly a recent addition – something drilled into the plaza's cobblestone within the last few years, to keep the zombies out of the yard -

He set Alyx down with the gun, and began to think of how to cut his way through –

The church doors opened.

Bright yellow light flooded into Gordon's vision, blinding him. When his vision returned, he saw the heavy-set shape of Father Grigori descending, a silhouetted angel, down the church steps to the light-colored courtyard, and approaching the surrounding fence.

"Well done, brother!" he cried jollily. "You are almost through!"

" _How do we get through the fence?_ "

For a moment the monk did not speak. He stared past Gordon, into the gullet of the town that had vomited him up.

"It is time…" he murmured.

" _How do we get through?!_ "

"This is holy ground, brother," replied the monk suddenly, and with a broad smile. "You cannot enter heaven until you have vanquished your _demons_."

Gordon pulled out the Colt Python and aimed to shoot the man through the chain links.

Grigori merely grinned. "Heh heh…We have been through this already, brother!"

The sounds of Gordon's pursuant echoed through the streets behind them – the choir of the damned accompanying it –

"They are coming…they are coming…heh heh…Slay the demon, brother!" Grigori shouted, his voice almost hysterical. "After this last trial, I will show you the way through! Yes, I will show you – but you must fight…"

Gordon could hardly even see the mad monk – he was a silhouette in the church's light, a laughing specter…

Gordon turned.

The bright church doorway cast a long rectangle of light across the plaza – and into this light lumbered a seven-foot tall, black, hunchbacked figure…

"Yes…yes…!" Grigori shouted in ecstasy.

It was an assemblage of bodies.

Two pairs of legs had fused together into thick fleshy pillars, facing backwards to resemble a goat's hindlegs. The feet were missing – instead there was a horrible, purple and black growth on both feet that served as a kind of toed hoof. The legs melted into a bloated, upside-down human chest, the shoulders and arms still connected – one arm splayed out uselessly to the side, while the other gripped the side of a building to balance the creature's unwieldly bulk. The chest locked into three more upright chests, fused together into a single upper torso. Four arms fused into two, while the third pair had migrated frontwards, towards the beast's head – a lustrous black bulb enfolded within the triumvirate of torsos like the stigma of a flower – the arms dangled from either side of this bulb, like the feeding pincers of a mantis.

And it was swarmed in black headcrabs. At least half a dozen scrabbled and clung to its pale, gross flesh, digging into it, irritating it, looking for something desperately.

Gordon was paralyzed in horror.

"They grow…more beautiful…each time…" Grigori managed. "Heh heh…ha ha…aha, aha ha ha haha HAhaHAHAHA AHAAHAHHAAHHAHAHA!"

The monstrosity moaned in reply, the sound emanating from around the bulb; it sounded like a score of goats screaming their last at once – mmmooooa-AAAAARRRHHHHHH!

Gordon stood between the beast and Alyx.

He dropped the Colt Python, seized the shotgun – he ran away from Alyx, hoping to draw the fight away from her -

The monster charged – barreling forward on its goat legs towards Gordon…

 _KABANG – KABANG –_

MRRRAUCK-!

A hundred metal pellets pelted the beast's pale hide, forcing it to cringe – some of the pellets hit its bulb, but seemed to have no effect. But green slime slewed through the air from the pale human chests –

Suddenly, with one of its arms, it seized a poison crab from its back and flung it headlong at Gordon –

 _KABANG_ -

He blasted it out of the air –

The beast threw another with its other arm –

 _KABANG –_ clean shot again -

The beast threw its weight forward; Gordon cocked the gun and aimed – it was too fast, too big – The bulb was right before Gordon's face, a pair of arms, a pair of hands – cold, human, intimate – they seized him roughly by the sides of the head – the beast buckled backwards, dragging him up, straining his neck – he saw the poison headcrabs, clinging desperately to the beast, gnawing at its skin, trying to find the nectar –

Trying to find the nectar…moving towards the bulb…

Gordon was flung through the air.

 _SLAM-!_

Onto his back, fifteen yards away.

The suit had cushioned much of the blow, but it was greatly weakened – everything felt heavy –

The shotgun was several yards away from him now – he heard galloping feet and hands – he stumbled to his feet – only then did he realize that his glasses were gone –

Gordon could not tell if Grigori was laughing or sobbing…

There! The glasses, within arms reach – they weren't broken, how were they not broken – Gordon had suspicions but now was not the time for it –

 _MRRAAUUCCKKK!_

Just as Gordon had placed his glasses the beast was upon him – it rammed him in the chest and threw him into the air like goring bull -

 _SLAM-!_

Sharp and aching pain –

The beast seized him again by the face – it smelled sugary sweet and bitter as death – he listened to the crooning headcrabs –

He still had Alyx's knife –

He swung wildly, and forced the blade deep into the black bulb – it was heavy, thick and leathery – the knife only made it halfway in –

 _MRRRAUUUUHHHHH-_

Ebony sap spurted out around the knife –

The beast threw him furiously to the side –

Gordon, with his other hand, had reached up to grab his own face, forcing his glasses to stay in place -

 _SLAM!_

Gordon wasn't sure if he could get back up – his head was dizzy – everything ached, he felt like a bug in a tin can –

 _MRRAAUUHGGHH!_

Gordon looked up –

The beast had gone berserk – it was seizing and flinging its headcrabs in every direction, as if trying to get them off –

Trying to…

He saw hordes of zombies, armies of headcrabs, gathering at the edges of the plaza, swaying in place, desperate to enter the fray, but somehow confused…? _They normally chase the titan, they normally suckle at its swinging sack – but this monster doesn't have a normal sack – they're confused – the black crabs are trying to find it and it doesn't like it –_

He saw a black crab land near to Alyx.

His heart stopped for a moment –

But the crab paid her no mind. It immediately righted itself, and leapt back towards the flailing and wailing monster, to a tiny puddle of honey spurted from the knife wound – hungrily it sucked it up – screeching and crooning – Gordon rushed back towards Alyx, seized the gravity gun –

A black headcrab hit him in the face.

He fell backwards, almost splitting his head on the cobblestone.

It hit him with its maw facing away from him – it was dazed for a moment, but it was trying to right itself –

Gordon screaming – smacked it with his arm – caught it with his elbow and cracked its carapace against the ground – stood up, stomped on it –

 _MRRRRUUUUUHHHNNNNN-_

The beast was facing Gordon again –

It charged –

Gordon readied the gun –

Pulled back the trigg-

Wrong timing.

The monster threw Gordon into the air – _SLAM!_

….

Gordon came to a few moments later –

The monster was already upon him.

It seized him by the head – Gordon could barely lift his arms – he could barely think –

It lifted him up, and seemed about to slam his head back into the ground – crush it to pulp –

 _BANG-!_

The monster hesitated, flinching.

 _BANG!-BANG!-BANG!_

It dropped Gordon – he knocked his head again but it was manageable –

Alyx was awake.

She was leaned against the fence –

Father Grigori had done something – he had somehow made larger holes in the fence – how? It did not matter – he had made holes large enough for his thick arms, and head reached through the fence to help keep Alyx upright, and steadied her remaining arm, preventing the wrist-breaking recoil of the Colt Python she was firing.

" _Finish it brother! Destroy the bulb! Feed my congregation-!_ "

Gordon, in the few seconds of hesitation, stumbled to his feet, thrust the gun at the monster – just as it turned back towards him, placing its own bulb right between the gun's pincers –

Gordon pulled the trigger.

 _Wumwumwumwumwumwum_

The bulb rippled like water.

The monster reeled back, out of the gravity gun's influence –

 _No…_ Gordon thought.

The beast roared vengefully at the moon – its bloated fists flailing -

And then the bulb finally tore.

A fount of black sap gushed up, and showered down upon the plaza like blood rain.

The crowd, the denizens of Ravenholm, could not restrain themselves. They rushed the plaza at once, to devour the nectar of Pan. The beast, still alive, was swarmed with hundreds of headcrabs – their weight dragged it to the ground – they were drinking it alive – its arms threw them off but they cared not for their preservation anymore -

Gordon, only showered with a few drops of the honey, ran to the fence, on the outskirts of the orgy –

"Yes, brother, come!"

Gordon took Alyx by the waist, cradled her in his arms – she nearly pushed him to the ground with her dense, muscled weight. Meanwhile, Grigori was doing something to the fence – he _was rolling it back,_ making a larger and larger hole – the chainlink stretched and warped and bound into thicker bands as the ragged circle expanded…

 _I know what this is,_ Gordon thought. _This was a proto-technology at Black Mesa..._

"Quickly, brother! Through!"

Gordon looked down at Alyx, almost tearing up again.

"Thank you," he said to her.

She smiled back weakly – "Could you…give me…a hand?"

"No, no puns," Gordon replied, refusing to smile.

The zombies were paying them no mind.

Gordon lifted her with a groan, and handed her through the fence to Grigori, who placed her gently on the ground.

Gordon slipped through –

Grigori, his hands like spiders, rolled the fence back into place, vanishing the holes.

For a moment, they stood silently on the church lawn, looking out at the riotous black mass in the plaza. The beast, the abomination, was still struggling for life beneath the advancing hordes. There were far more participants than there was honey – they compensated by turning on each other, ripping each other apart to get at just another drop of the drug.

Gordon turned away in disgust.

He looked at Father Grigori, who stood at Gordon's side, watching the orgy with almost exaggerated fascination. He was not a tall man – only medium height, and therefore Gordon had to look down at him. His head was perfectly bald, making his face look rounder. He had a poorly cut black beard that invaded his neck. His eyes were dangerously sleep-deprived, dragged down by almost hideous, wrinkled, discolored bags. He smelled remarkably awful – perhaps years of grime had built up on his body, years for his unwashed sweat to ferment. He wore a dark blue blood-stained wool jacket, over an even darker blue Sunday sweater. Under that was his white clerical collar, spattered with green and red, and a beaded necklace, from which hung a small golden cross. He had dark gray fraying slacks, and a pair of faded red and white sneakers.

His eyes were the most interesting feature, however – they were dark, but yet they glinted intelligently – even cunningly. There was, Gordon sensed, some measure of cold-hearted irony in them, mixed with a measure of wearied sincerity – and Gordon could not tell which was worse.

"Are we safe?" Gordon asked.

"Yes, brother. For the time being –"

Gordon cracked the monk across the skull with the crowbar. He crumpled to the ground.

Without a word, Gordon lifted Alyx again in his arms, and carried her towards the light of the church.

"Not sure…about that one, Gordy…" Alyx breathed.

"No, no puns or 'Gordy.' And you would have done the same thing."

"No excuse…"

Gordon heard Grigori laughing behind him.

"I understand brother; do you want another swing? I was only out for a few moments! Ha ha!"

Gordon did not even turn to look at him. "Maybe I should shoot him," he suggested.

"He helped…me shoot…He saved you..."

"I know, I know. Don't talk. Just rest."

And together they entered the church, with Grigori limping behind.

* * *

The bowels of the chapel vaulted over them like the ribbed belly of a whale. Rows of padded pews…chandeliers overhead, hosting electric lights, and several floodlights thrumming in the corners to pick up the considerable slack. The walls were ornately painted and carved with classic Biblical scenes – Abraham and Isaac, the Flood, Jesus calling the Apostles, the Annunciation, the Three Wise Men - it was no cathedral, but the craftmanship was impressive nonetheless. And a the back of the chapel, at the pulpit and altar –

The whole space was gutted.

In its place was a complex of computer servers.

 _I knew it,_ Gordon thought, as he placed Alyx down in a pew.

"Behold, my friend and master," Grigori said, in a tone both mocking and reverent.

The servers were working hard – they made a mighty rushing wind with their internal fans, on top of the wintery cold. And above the network, hung from the ceiling, amidst wires and cables, was a bulbous mechanical contraption…and from this, there extended a kind of robotic arm, clutching a small, specialized projector. It was not yet on.

A voice emitted through the chapel, echoing like the voice of God.

If, that is, God were British.

"Are they here? Is that them?"

"It is!" Grigori replied.

The projector's arm flexed, and moved into place. A series of lights flickered on, and a monochromatic, holographic figure appeared at the pulpit – the figure of a man in a kind of astronautic jumpsuit. He was lanky and somewhat awkward looking. His features were squarish and angular. He wore a pair of large, rectangular spectacles. His blonde hair was thinning. His expression was curt, with a touch of wry humor. His arms were folded behind his back.

"Hello," he said briskly, almost cheerfully, "I am CHICOV. Care to know the acronym? Characterized Holographic Interface for Comprehensive Operations Viodrive. So, there you go. My spine and cerebral cortex are in that jabberwocky of a machine up there; and, according to my most recent file dig, I sported the most unfortunate name of Dr. Rory Wheatley Mungo. If you know who that was, please let me know – especially the flattering bits. I'm sincerely curious.

"Enough about me. Congratulations! Despite my quite considerable efforts, fate has stubbornly favored your survival at every turn! If you could see behind the scenes, you would be even flabbergasted at your sheer good luck! Convenient malfunctions in my traps, quick noticing of my cameras, lucky evasion of roaming hordes, et cetera et cetera…if everything had gone according to plan, you would be very, very dead right now, like the other thirteen or so poor chaps Eli sent through here – I think you actually met the remains of one. Blew his head clean off with a garbage can. He was conveniently looking the other way. In fact, you've been so incredibly lucky, that my statistical calculations show there is only a 0.00001% chance your survival was _not_ the result of intelligent extradimensional interference!

"So, that all being said…" and the hologram leaned forward, smiling darkly, "Would you care, my dear, delicious Ripley Point, to explain who this 'skull-faced G-man' is?"

* * *

 **Merry Christmas, y'all! Happy Holidays, and a Happy New Year! Thank you for your patience, and I hope it is worth it! Let me know in your comments! What did you like? What didn't you like? Don't be shy! I mean, please be nice obviously, but I want to know what people honestly think so I know how to improve and move forward and entertain the living daylights out of you, hopefully!**

 **The next chapter is going to have to be, essentially, a Ravenholm part 3. Just 'cause, we need some time to process all of the big surprises I've just dropped on you. Like Alyx's injury, or my implied Portal crossover that I assure you has ample explanation. But please let me know if the changes I've been making here are too much, or if you don't like it - obviously, I haven't exactly explained a whole lot, so it's hard to put a judgement call on it. I promise it isn't meant to be super, super extensive; but when I do finally finish this first half-life 2 "retelling," I would want the to do the episodes with some much stronger crossover elements with Portal, and either work a more satisfying conclusion into that second story or go big and do a whole third novel, making a freaking trilogy in, like, ten years, at the rate I'm working. At the very least, I'm finishing this half-life 2 story. I have a satisfying ending in mind, so it can stand alone if it needs to, but I've always wanted to continue on to write my own half-life 3.**

 **Anyway, those are just some thoughts, to keep you sufficiently informed without spoiling anything! Once again, Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and happy new year! Thank you so much for reading!**


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